No need to convince me
you've been ravaged to
that desolate wasteland
composed of stem wine glasses
overflowing with thick, dark liqueur
bumbling drunk all the time
and you wonder why
no one ever visits you?
It's a twisted aspect,
the gnarled truth
remains to be
that you
have no
thought
no preservation
other than to allow
yourself to act coolly
indifferent towards
everyone and everything
because you're dying inside
and can't find the means
to raise a white flag
before you're plowing
six feet under
gasping for breath
guess what?
The hole's already been filled
and no one can hear your cries.