i always expected to die by the bottle, in a small, cheap hotel room with the shower running as the whore i just fucked was cleaning up and i sat on the chair finishing off the last bottle of beer and my last cigarette as i wrote a poem on a napkin from the bar i met the broad at... i didn't expect it would be here, in the bedroom on my knees, arms folded on the bed holding me up, gasping for air, sweat pouring down my red face, not here, not now, it feels as though someone reached inside my chest and strangled my heart.. i gasp for air and close my eyes as mr death whispers sandmans dreams from the corner of the room....
Reason for writing:
i have good days and bad days with this condition and this weekend was rough...i had a dream my son told me mr death was coming tonite...
Birth sign: Libra
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