Forty Bottles and Seven

Some days it feels like just too much;
the weight of worldly woes.
I cannot help but fear my thoughts;
this life thing kinda blows.

I pass on by a liquor store
to restock up on meds.
Self-diagnosed with apathy
for dreams I’ve torn to shreds.

My home, more like a brewery
which reeks of evenings past.
I can’t recall the night before,
just how long did I last?

Forty bottles off to the side;
seven bottles of Jack.
Reminders of my pointless week,
and everything I lack.

A story told so many times,
and each sip has its own.
I scramble through my message bank,
and pray I’m not alone.

I tell myself, oh just one more,
what could it really hurt?
I then proceed to drown my mind,
while buried in the dirt.

I drink and drink and drink and drink,
and then I drink some more.
Until I’m numb; desensitised,
and lastly hit the floor.

I wake up late at half-past 12
and rush to get to work.
Perhaps one day I’ll face the place
where inner-demons lurk.

– J.S.Worth


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