Liquor.

Bourbon waves, tequila skies,
champagne clouds, and whiskey highs.
formed the landscapes of my youth;
even drowned some sorrows with vermouth.

Grottoes of gin, and scotch on the beach,
led to shores of schnapps, their flavour: peach.
Sobriety seemed boring, and lacking appeal,
although so many memories now seem surreal.

Red wine roses, Cabernet trees,
Merlot mountains with a Riesling breeze,
convinced the cure to my endless pain,
lay at the bottom of each bottle, in vain.

Fields of lager, rivers of pale ale,
streets of rye and ginger-ale,
often had me stumbling, slurring my words,
still, I returned to this wasted water world. 

Rum rain-forests, and cider shrines,
sake blossoms with liqueurs so fine,
I should never have chased these alcohol dreams,
that destroyed my liver, and my self-esteem.

Hypnos.

Wide awake, this consciousness is heavy leaden,
like a weathered path often downtrodden,
any second could deliver on threats of Heaven,
or find you holding court in Eden's forbidden gardens.

Remorse stands by awaiting further direction,
in its place regrets are soon erected.
The unkempt mind's arsenal overflows with deadly weapons.
Poison's infectious effects result in perceiving curses where there were once blessings.

Dastardly designed is this deceiving deadpan at the surface,
as desperation damages my insides, determined to undo decades of bliss.
Every breath an effort, I just stop and breathe uneasy,
afraid to acknowledge the anxiety that eats me from within.

All this madness--and lack of sleep is the one to blame;
she starts fires but never puts out their flames.
She corrodes sanity, like rats gnawing on the ropes that bind them.
Her talents are tragedies, flowers that faded in beauty once denied of their stems.

Silent Sermon.

Whether I whisper these words to no audience in a dust filled, deserted room,
or yell them louder than a roaring waterfall in the middle of bright, abandoned woods,
they will still fall on deaf ears, as they have for many years now,
they will still be the antecedent to my typhoon tears.

More callous than the hands of world class bodybuilders,
fragile as wet sand that falls apart between my fingers,
brittle as diamonds often confused to be quite strong,
quieter than the lark who's lost her gift of song.

You became my new addiction, quicker than seconds turned to minutes,
I was yours before I knew it, suddenly in it to win it.
This fascination took hold of me, it was like getting lost in the pages of a good book,
unbeknownst to me, you were a thief of hearts, a common crook.

You had my destiny in your hands, yet you chose to walk away,

held all the ingredients to cure my loneliness, instead you let me go astray.
I should've listened when they said to never leave myself to find someone else,
wish I had paid attention when my mother warned me you were bad for my health.

Vitriol.

Born with an acid tongue, you launched verbal attacks that ended careers.
Like burn victims in India, you lashed out to defend perceived threats against your honour. 
Sonic boom—the sound of each blow landing like atomic bombs in Hiroshima. 
Nagasaki even knew you created more casualties than Iwo Jima. 
Instead of saliva, you spit genocide, each word its very own Holocaust. 
Casual remarks were like concentration camps, reuniting divided families in chambers gassed. 
Vocal terrorism, with every sentence ending in beheading.
The scars you left were like brands by iron rod on broken hearts.