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365 Days of Creativity

one hundred and eighteen

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There's a poem hidden on my tongue

but I just can't find it,

my mouth is numb.

I've been sipping on winter for way too long,

this city is colder than your bubbler bong;

but I like the way it's one way streets all seem to lead from you to me,

and I like how you take them at full throttle

playing marco polo with the bottom of the bottle-

-As if you don't find it every night;

like the last few drops aren't your lullaby.

And it's an alibi that lulls you out of lucidity,

because your favourite superpower is anonymity.

And you don't mind if I show up when I'm fucking high,

because I'm a god damn child who can't handle life.

I'm the peak of the mountain all covered in white,

I'm the age old dragon,

I'm the youthful sprite

I'm the bowl that you smoke when you come down slowly,

I'm the pipe that you toke when you got no rollies.

I'm your vice, I'm your habit, I'm your bad addiction

I'm your fight, I'm your project, I'm your real life fiction.

I'm the cut on your tongue that you won't let heal,

I'm the poem in your mouth that you cannot feel.

Now I'm the lover of your discontent,

I'm the jar in your cupboard that's labelled 'rent'.

It's the 26th and the jar's still empty,

but we've got a two-six and your pouring hand's heavy.

Using whisky and water as lubrication-

it numbs and smooths through our expectations.

And I don't know when we made the agreement to feed our fucks and starve our feelings,

But my belly feels full like the waxing moon, 

and my chest holds as much as a fractured spoon.

Naked and hungry-

we share your bed

-searching for the words, in each other's heads.