One a.m
And something doesn’t feel right,
My head’s a buzz, bed feels small,
Another lonely night,
Seventh one in all.
Two a.m
Can not find a rhyme,
Records spin and spin,
Flipped The Doors for the ninth time…
Before grabbing Nirvana from the bin.
Three a.m
And I’m sorta sick of describing how life is fucked.
Cigarette burned my thumb,
Laptop died, but the poem sucked
So I’m really not that bummed…
4 a.m
Now no point in sleeping,
Drank the last beer,
And felt those feelings creeping
(“Am I a fucking hack?”)
That tired old fear…..
12 p.m
Punched in the gut,
Brain won’t fit my skull,
Seek out the hair of the mutt
To make the throbbing a bit more dull.
1 p.m
What the fuck did I write?
How incredibly delirious.
What did I do last night?
Why am I so furious?
2 p.m
Vodka goes down smooth,
Today, can’t stomach beer,
Desperately need something to soothe,
And the liquor store is near…
2:15 p.m
I mean, on second thought
What I wrote
Was pretty fucking smart,
I really hope……
~Tyler R. Martin
bourbon, cigarettes and syllables 