So I forced myself to continue writing the other night, even though I really thought the task would be done in vain. And although it wasn't entirely productive, I have the beginning of a fantastic piece of work.
He picked up a bottle but it's not the first time.
Most of these days it’s the only peace he finds.
Flooded by his misery, drowning in her dreams,
It's easier for him to stay than fight the current that carries him away.
But when the bottle dries and the numb subsides, he's still sinking.
-
Just for tonight, it's just for tonight.
Tomorrow he'll make it right.
But somewhere between sunset and five a.m.
The pain comes back to claim it's place.
And by five oh one, all he can see,
Is her face and whiskey.
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