There in the dismal glow of the television screen he finds himself crying again not because it hurts but because its there again. He sits silently inside his chair lost inside his own mind as the tv spits its blues and greens onto his face. A bottle of Jack sits by his side as his arm hangs over the armrest and his fingers dangle but a mere space away. The ice in his glass has long since melted but he prefers his whiskey warm anyway when that pain has him so torn. His whiskey stained tears roll down his face as he searches for the logic of this darkness. Remnants of the day no longer linger on his walls but the wear of the night hangs low under his eyes. His lips have not tasted a sweet touch for so long but find the bittersweet company of a warm whiskey bottle every night. The thick smell of tears and whiskey and sweat hang heavy in his room as he sits inside his own stench of bitterness to question his darkness as it knows not of his pain. Drenched in his own depressing filth he grabs that empty glass again and pours his liquid destruction again not because it hurts but because that pain is there again.
Monday, September 8, 2008