Choking on roses

It's in the quiet times,
those moments when the job is done.
Whiskey and cigarettes become
comforting whispers.

The silence, obnoxiously deafening.
The mind is a glass room,
thoughts stampeding like raging bulls.

Drunk with emotions, love, hate, revenge.
Why bother...The heart is heavy,
happiness loathes sadness.

Ideas flowing like free w****s,
writing them down only aids in frustration.

Who said, smell the roses?
One with a strange desire I reckon,
a castrating action for mental stimulation.