Large splashes of soda,
Pretend there is a something.
Smile as often as you can muster
Even if more often than not,
It's gin soaked. and fueled.
Deep down,
I really sort of hate it all.
Things don't shine.
Nothing illuminates,
It's just there.
Optimism can become almost an unwelcomed houseguest.
When day in and day out it's proven itself to come up short.
Why get off the coach?
Why bother?
Why give a shit about anything?
Pretty sure that's the pessimism talking, but god damn if it doesn't hold some sway.
Especially when it seems to also be substantially on the more valid end of the spectrum.
I hate that I hate.
I hate that I can't just grab a hold,
Rise up and prevail.
I used to burn so bright and nothing stood between me and anything but me.
Now, I just feel old.
Tired.
Thin in a figurative sense.
And I hate it.
I down these old man gins and pretend.
But I hate it.
To do so little with so much
Is a daily mockery
To the lottery that is life.
But goddammit it's hard to care.
Another gin
Another liqour fueled escape
Another 'easy' hangover
Another late night promise that next week is the week
All leads to the inevitable solemn end of night
Where I lie awake, quite certain
That nothing more than gin and insincerity awaits me in the week to come.
