I Spill My Guts Quite Enough, Quite Often

I spill my guts quite enough, quite often

to others

when I drink

when I’m drunk

when I’m soft



I think I hate myself a lot,

maybe more than I should.


Maybe I lost my job.

Maybe I didn’t.

I’m not sure.


Is it bad to dream while complacent?


I wonder right now,

this minute, this second,

how embarrassing I am.


To work a swerve,

to keep this heap moving,

I know I sometimes want to stop.


Park in a ravine where the fireball’s good and

hot to roast my bones and blood.

Keeping a straight line has been hard for me,

all my passions leave no room to breathe.


Integral part of the wheel, she was, for a while.

I’ve been drowning lately in good intentions gone

all sideways.


Don’t dismiss my drunken war stories as nonsense.

I surely drink for something.

Be it a girl,

a war,

a word.


My life paused at the best part of the song.

I’ll just listen closer with my head on the ground.

I’ve got whiskey to pound.

My throat sore from contact.


My lungs ache, oxygen deprived.

I barely remember her love on my skin.


I wear a tie to a party.

At midnight it’s over.

I’ve confessed too late.


She’s on a beach,

in a sling,

across the world with him, and

not thinking about much else.


Of that I’m sure.



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