Misery is a flask of alcohol; of cheap vodka
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the puke like fury pungent sttenchy euphoria
you emit cannot replace the profundity of the
sick baggage of bloody memories and pain
you mourn tearfully.
A nightmare with peculiar holes keeps you up, as
you sleep lightly since hundreds of fragments of
turmoil seep through.
In spite of the wounded friends you have emotionally
damaged, you are nothing more than a mere fucking
drunk full of repetitive stories of sorrow.
Elated is the one who drinks to meet his fate, but torment
is more vicious than destiny, and you canít even kill yourself.
copyright © 2006 Laura Torrespico
Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self. Ė Cyril Connolly