Karl says the FBI searched his car
because he had sex with
a terrorist, and he tells
this story to anyone who
gets close enough to
smell his breath, all
boozy and stained with
lies and cheap gin.
He's convinced he's got cancer,
he's got arthritis, he's got
each disease of the week,
buried in medical dictionaries
like a detective in crime novels,
eyes magnified by fear and
maybe gin. He thinks he's
dying faster than anyone else.
Every night, same bar stool,
he repeats his glories, rehashes
the same old drunken fights,
thinks his life's a grand tale—
but we're sick of it, Karl,
tired of your endless woes,
your stench of despair and
piss-soaked pants. Hope's
not in that bottle, and your
stories are as hollow as
an old bone in the dirt,
but you can't see, Karl,
you're too busy drowning
in your myths and whining
about scars that aren't there,
chasing shadows down alleyways.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: February 15th, 2025 13:12
- Comment from author about the poem: I cannot save my friend Karl God knows I have tried. It's tough to watch him rush down the rabbit hole to Oblivion
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments2
A fine Worded Poem, though I feel for your Friend. I’ve known people like that. Hope he gets better.
The way you describe him I think I have met him. A great write with a strong message
Thanks Soren I appreciate your feedback and all I can do is pray for him
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