This won't be the last one.
Not until you mean it.
It isn't pleasing as to shake off a bad cold,
more,
a denial
of a comfort,
a short break from life,
without which,
life would take a heavier toll.
The world rushes on outside,
poisoning itself with it's drug of choice.
Alcohol flows freely into the mouths,
of the young,
and old alike.
The weekend brawlers,
became the majority
Now with haze surrounding,
decision making
becomes
slower
as to almost cease.
The drunken world approaches outside
it peeks in, at window corners,
and judges
and frowns.
I care not and tap my ash away,
I will stop if they will,
maybe,
Tomorrow.
