It reeks of old empty bottles,
vomit on a white carpet.
One more wasted weekend
they can add to the rest.
One more wasted weekend
I can add to the rest.
Spent sitting waiting watching
these foolish friends of mine
make a mess of themselves
slowly tear away at their lives,
unknowingly.
Afraid to be themselves,
they pay money to be anyone else,
cash leaks from their futures
into the mouth of
the man who told them,
"it’s the best fake you can buy.”
Because 21
was the easiest escape they could find
from the reality that
sometimes the clock runs too fast,
and years turn into hours,
days into seconds,
and as pressure builds up,
they fall down.
Till the burn of the vodka
distracts from the burn
of the rejection letter
from the college that
they’ve always dreamed of going to.
Till rushed blurry faces
fill their eyes as they try to run away
from the fear of reality,
the fear of their futures,
the fear of the thought
that no matter how long
they pretend to be somebody else,
they'll always be the terrified sixteen year old
trying to lose themselves in bottles.
And when the alcohol wears off,
life hits hard,
and the only thing that they lose
is satisfaction.
I’m the only one
who remembers it all.
I’ve heard the screams,
seen the tears,
the punched holes in the wall.
I’ve smelled the bitter vodka based
vomit on the floor,
heard the slurred voices,
the false promises,
listened as one after another
lets out their secrets,
they’ll regret it in the morning.
“But they were drunk,”
“they didn’t know any better,”
keep telling yourself that.
I’ve watched them wheeled out
stomachs pumped
parents called
I’ve seen it all.
So why you ask,
have I not drank?