Deep, dark, melancholic
The musings of an alcoholic
Some in rhyme
Some in verse
None that matter much at all
Thoughts that live inside his head
Filled with fear, with hope, with dread
In his heart
And in his soul
Not worth a look or listen
Late at night he lifts his pen
It\'s time to find the words again
That let him speak
Of darker things
The monster stirs inside
We know that he will toil in vain
Imprisoned deep within his pain
A whisky bottle
By his side
Will blur the edges nicely
Before the early sun will rise
He shuts his tired, rheumy eyes
And hopes that
In the morning light
His words, might just, pass muster
A restless hour, or two, of sleep
No need for rest to settle deep
Too far in
He won\'t get out
He knows the devil\'s watching
And sure enough, he lifts his his pad
A little good, a little bad
He smiles his smile
To face the truth
Another wasted evening
Later on the bottle calls
It isn\'t long before he falls
A cork released
A tear to match
A trembling hand to settle
Still searching for his one fine poem
Before the final journey home
Another glass
Of inspiration
Too late, my friend, too late.