life comes to a pause for a wilted flower on the table, disgruntled voices smelling whiskey, heaping praises on its withering. there was only nothingness in offer from lips that hadn't tasted another... dingy old bars up the road playing shitty music and it is from one of their own.
I refrain myself from picking up that damn pen filled with regrets to write a poem that most often turn into an eulogy by the time I finish shaping the tears into something intangible on paper that doesn't rhyme or mean like the best ones often do.