Old suicidal bottles (poem)

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Joined: 18 Jan 2011
Gender: Female
Posts: 20

23 Jan 2011, 10:36 am

Old suicidal bottles

Barman asks if the remains of the drinks are dead,
I tell him that since he asked,
They all commited suicide,
I spare him the details,
He does not say a word,
Just takes them away,
Those half-empty, half-full bottles,
And those half-empty, half-full glasses,
As he tries to lift up an empty bottle,
I put it on it's side,
I tell him now it's dead,
He silently tries to take it,
And I put it back upright,
I say:
"Now he's alive alright?"
No reply.

He says I'm messed up in the head,
And tells me I'm hiding it,
I beg to differ from the fact,
But agree at the same time,
Good old mental illness,
We both talk away some time,
A drunken conversation,
On a January night,
And it's a mess,
The conflict in my head,
And the lack of liberation,
The darkened trip,
And too much talking,
Not enough liberation,
Just conscience.

Me, myself and I,
We're in a state,
Rambling,
Where there's too little hope,
And too much talk,
Of suicide and more,
And he's messed up,
And she's messed up,
Lonely souls holding glasses,
I'm totally sane,
At the same time neurotic,
Plagued,
On this very dark night,
I ramble.