The first glass I drink to solitude,
The second I drink to drunkenness.
I romance myself toward oblivion
Because otherwise I’d just grind my teeth.
Drunk, I can’t even fathom time.
It’s just another word I speak
To make a rhyme.
Another glass down, but there’s more in store.
Living idly in my parents’ home at thirty-five,
Mooching off their food and wine,
Unable to earn a living of my own,
Unable to earn a dime.
It’s sobering thoughts like these that tempt me
To pour another glass,
But I suppose tomorrow is another day,
And (so they keep telling me), if I rise early
And embrace the light,
There’s a fortune to be had.
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