I thought of you
right before I threw up
the last of the alcohol
from last night.
The bile from my stomach
tasted better then you.
I heard something
from the living room.
I crawled, on two feet,
towards the sound.
David Bowie played from the stereo,
while you slept on the couch.
I threw up again
and laid down in it
hoping to catch some sleep
and forget about it all.
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Pictures for sad children: The poet years?
ReplyDeleteI will work hard to be the John Campbell of words
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