Another whiny drunken poem: or Why the hell do I keep finding myself in this predicament?

It’s sad, this grotesque dance we do,

for lack of a better rut.

We skin our shins and flail our limbs

and bash our heads and strut

to ape the animals we dare not be

and finish screaming on our knees.

We whine and whimper,

cry and groan

wallowing mightily on our throne

as selfless pity enshrines our names

we beg the bliss that is to blame.

A bottle, half imbibed

bears testament as our sterile scribe,

of what we were and will not be

or weren’t and always never see.

Draped in sheets stained with love

we spin and gesture thinking of

the times we shall not ever know

with eyes as black and white as snow

on pavement soaked with gasoline

with spark and smoke we dream of seeing.

Slam and bash and rip away

at that brick wall you see today,

in hopes to finally make it through

to find a virgin wall in you.