Words from an Insomniac still trying to find her way

Loneliness is an Empty Glass at the Bar

(photo: courtesy of the author)

 

Pessimistic;

that was the name I gave

and now she won’t

go away.

Was she just another lonely whore?

perhaps more disgruntled than before?

Unsure of life, of the future,

like a nagging housewife;

always wanting more.

All the while

I sit here quietly,

silently praying;

Please Bartender,

give me my sin again.

I had money to waste

and no future to think of,

and Loneliness;

that was my middle name

the one I gave to the other dame

wearing a smile that could kill

and a run in her stocking,

so I went for gentlemanly, saying

Don’t cry. This one’s on me.

This bar isn’t small

yet they all seem to find me;

the crying, the hopeless,

and they all drink for free.

With money to burn,

that’s the nice guy in me,

when all I really want

is to drown my soul in peace.

So keep ’em drinking

they’ll stop talking,

eventually.

And me,

Mr. Pessimistic Blues,

with an empty glass, on this unimportant night

funny how art imitates life.

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