While you Drink Alone

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Reflections of self in a dirty puddle
light-beams shining on an old denim jacket,
sipping time from a glass of gin, exhaling
cigarette smoke up in the air,
A half empty bottle of Bombay Sapphire
clanging against pocket change,
drowning out the slow jazz music
played by failed artists on familiar saxophones,
inside dens of dark drinks and despondency.

The drizzle washing away the tears
even before they could blur the vision,
the drizzle saving you from the
stinging pain in the eyes
and choking lump in the throat,
the thunderclouds drowning out the voices
of the raging guns in your head,
voices that can only be drowned out,
by half empty bottles of gin
served with a pinch of tobacco,
inside bars of broken hearts and booze.

The momentary flash of lightning
illuminates a face in the puddle,
a face staring back at you with
eyes full of tire and loneliness,
a face which wants to say something, something
which can only be spoken aloud,
in the company of strangers and vagabonds
and failed jazz artists and uninterested bartenders,
inside inns of indecency and intoxication.

The emptiness of these empty streets
amplifies the vacuum of your soul
and soothes the pain of your dying conscience,
of pretending happiness with a fake smile
plastered on a fake face, living a fake life
telling lies to fulfill the desires of your heart
as the soul weeps somewhere inside,
and you drink all alone,
the alcohol and the cigarettes drowning out the truth
of your envy and greed and pride and your self-hatred,
as you keep hoping that one day
someone will come and tell you that
underneath all this shit you are a good person,
while you are with nobody but your shadow,
inside a lounge for the lost and the lonely.

 

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