Hindsight

“Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you’re allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It’s like killing yourself, and then you’re reborn. I guess I’ve lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.”
Charles Bukowski
skins
The morning after, it’s plain to see,
the drunken mistakes, you did to me
Your eyes are teary, with stains of sorrow
I’m hardened to that, it’ll happen tomorrow
As the sun sets fear, sings lullabies
Soon you’ll be home, bringing hell and goodbyes
Again the saddest story is now told
I’m becoming a drunk too, as I grow old
You stained my mind, with intoxicated words
Breaking my soul, with your scourge
this morning tells a story, of my final plea
I lay this bottle down, because you have become me.
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