Each time my drunken eyes
Glance through these books and poems,
The crushing rage that fills me like a turbulent waves over the sea shore,
Drives off every bit of alcohol in me.
Bringing my pathetic ass back to the reality I tried to run away from with every green bottle.
Questions. Why would they write questions,
With no answer or tips leading the way?
How would this pathetic reader who continues
Scourging libraries and bars for an escape
Find a way out of this dark labyrinths?
Questions.
Why echo my mind,
Leading me to flip each pages
With a sad nod accompanying my finger tips
Only to meet a dead end _questions?
I know we are probably in the same boat
Led to this sickening shore of questions
But why can't you be different from me; this pathetic loser.
Maybe we are all losers and you're no different with the pen.
©Zoe
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