blank
the blank
I blank the final swig of blank
feel it blank it's way down my blank
hiss at it scorching my blank
and reach for the blank to pour blank another.
I think of how my blank scream
every time I let the blank blank me.
Then I blank down at my blank --
blank -- blank the glass of blank --
and think of how these were the blank
that should have blank blank away from me.
But didn't. And I keep blank
why I blank your hell, blank your blank.
I remember how blank blank your way
through me. You blank me
from the inside out, and blank kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
blank a hole through blank. I blank it.
Now I have to talk myself of the blank,
and my blank is blank between the
blank in the blank nestled in my blank.
But I have to blank more. The blank
doesn't last as long as blank do(es).
---
Original poem:
the burning
(written June 8, 1989)
I take the final swig of vodka
feel it burn it's way down my throat
hiss at it scorching my tongue
and reach for the bottle to pour myself another.
I think of how my tonsils scream
every time I let the alcohol rape me.
Then I look down at my hands --
shaking -- holding the glass of poison --
and think of how these were the hands
that should have pushed you away from me.
But didn't. And I keep wondering
why I took your hell, took your poison.
I remember how you burned your way
through me. You corrupted me
from the inside out, and I kept coming back.
I let you infect me, and now you've
burned a hole through me. I hated it.
Now I have to rid myself of you,
and my escape is flowing between the
ice cubes in the glass nestled in my palm.
But I have to drink more. The burning
doesn't last as long as you do.
Problems with this page? Then deal with it...