Comes when it’s four in the morning and
you’re scraping your drawers for every last
sediment of pot so your mind can hopelessly
keep itself afloat for the next odd some minutes.
Wallowing in self-pity and weakness
for no apparent reason other than to bitch
about your own apathy. Always settling,
never striving. You don’t seize the day because
you don’t have a shadow. Just the fear of failure
stepping on your heels. That’s why you
drown in an empty bottle of Lagavulin,
where there are no rocks
in the bottom of your glass.
Just that burning hickory liquor
used for a blanket on the