Whiskey on the Rocks
This whiskey, how graceful you fall, how gently you warm my heart. Delicate in aroma, stiff in taste. But how delightful. You coat my lingering pain so well, as if marriage be in order. Anguish and whiskey, till death do we part.
I embrace you with my drunken hand. Shaking, quivering to the somber melodies of my lonely soul. What beauty you bring from my aching heart. Bringing forth copious thoughts that pour from a broken spout.
I taste you in all things I relate to your amber color, your wooden flavors. The sunset, it brings me to want you, to taste you as if you are the melting vision before me. A genius you create as the snow falls softly upon the ground.
I freeze in my appearance as I look through my window. Admiring the scenery of the cold dreary winter. But I see myself, my dazed eyes, the dark circles that hug my drunken face. Looking, I can't help but weep, oh how I thought you numbed me. How I thought you snuffed my gloom.
But a lie, you taunted me with words and rhymes. With ideas only you could bring, much like a lost love. Like a tell tale of heartache that bleeds from the very pages it was written upon. How woeful I be, suffering in empty glasses, empty bottles.
The world spins as I desire more than my mind can handle. I am driveling with inquiry to my state. As if it was not I who cursed me into such a spell, such addiction.
What meager thought you truly bring. A liquid brimming with such elegance, yet such vile ability to devour. To tear apart a man ribs as if deceased before a coroner. I examine my tiring character as I see myself crumble. Thawing to the heat of my tears.
I examine my shaking hands, my unsteady eyes and my solemn heart. All I see as I peel away the wounds, the battered tissues of my soul. Are screams yelling out for the freshness of life. But I am far too bitter to give them such.
I shut them out as if an angry child, resentful of his own guardians. I too scream, but I scream to the frozen void that carries well through my hollow bones. I scream to remorse the lost words that I had no right to, nor shall ever say.
For I have been taken ill by my infliction and buried myself far beyond six feet and have given myself no gravestone. I hear voices call, but I bare no name to my burial, no head to peer from the soil. Adrift from all prying eyes.
All love that holds me dear. For I have allowed the thoughts of misery to be my company. And have allowed a dark romance of self destruction be the brewing of my genius.
Have you ever thought a miserable existence best suited your ability to generate genius?
How far are you willing to follow your heart?
A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words
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