The screen says ‘share your story here’, strange! I don’t have any stories. 

And what I have is hardly poetic or even worth sharing. 

Down to my fourth drink and my trembling hands have started to betray me and my dancing hallucinations. 

I want to attain my body, my sexless nights and perhaps those mystic yellow curtains.  

Perhaps people should attain death once in a while rather than being dead. 

A begger’s vein knows that or a whore’s majestic smile or a sleepless crowdless city. 

Shallow whiskey isn’t the perfect funnel to introspect one’s existential highway. 

My middle finger isn’t mad enough to inspire my broken and flying thoughts, 

and make them shimmer as a bloodless, breathless poem. 

I can’t kiss my words, the day I can I will keep my pen down. 

One more drink and one more smoke then I will get that sleep, 

Sleeped-on, molested-on and crushed-on with dreams. 

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