The Prequal
Foresight,
I can see my future,
A nervous breakdown approaches,
I’ve not touched my booze or cigars in a few days,
I always come crawling back to my addictions,
Like some sick form of legal heroine,
Shooting up pint after pint, Liter after liter,
It burns as it laces my throat with such sweet affliction,
Awaiting my saccharin inebriation,
Hands shake in relief,
Quivering lips content,
Tongue swells with remorse,
Whispers into the night,
. . . Words left unspoken,
Promises made then broken,
I writ emy story in blood,
A nervous breakdown approaches,
Sitting in a dark room,
Listening to the great pianist of the world play music about my life,
Smoking one Cigar after the other,
Camacho, Partagas, Le Siernna, all the greats,
. . . I think to myself will it ever come, this fallout of insanity,
Or will I just rot away from within
Diseased failing liver,
Or will i forget how to breath,
Decayed lungs,
One glass right after the other as i slowly loose my mind,
Loosing track of time,
Whispering into the night,
When will this end,
This cycle of self destruction,
In hindsight this is merely a prolonged suicide,
So it is,
As I continue to die from one glass to the next I recognize my foresight,
Not as a gift but a warning. . . .
. . . “Will it ever come. . . my end,
Will it ever come?”
