Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, politics, Writing

When The Party’s Over

Leave the bottle on the bar.
I’ve kicked the can down the road,
tracking its rattles,
trying to hear what lies inside,
but I think it’s just another thing that I don’t want to know,
so you don’t need to know either.

I sleep in shifts,
paranoid and flanked by my sycophants.
My best boy is a sociopath,
nouveau riche narcissist,
talks his shit in a rehearsed accent,
and I’m safe,
because I present him to you, to hate.

I live while the sun shines,
hibernating during hard times and harrowing winters,
the road ahead, red with rust, is not for me,
so here I’ll stay, with slowly sinking bottles,
closed eyes and constantly changing subjects.

I’ll hide behind wars that are not waged in my direction,
excelling in the fine art of obfuscation.
Don’t you know, you’ve never had it so good?
I’m your heartache,
I’m your hate,
but you love me, unconditionally,
in my delusional dreams.

I’m sorry that you feel that way.

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