Ficly

inebriation / fabrication

it’s four am, i’m still awake, my blindness isn’t cured.
i’m drunk again, no time will tell how long until the next
bottle downed will clear my hateful mind until it’s pure.

the sunrise brings a telling tale of heartache, nonetheless,
i’m terrified the day will come when my construction and
fiction of a life is troubled with my soberness.

a diamond in the rough is such a feast for hungry hands.
they fall through cracks in fingers like a stream of molten glass
and burn your palms and make you wonder when this pain will end.

i thought you were a diamond, caked in dirt, but high in class.
your stone was jade, my hand was played, i see no reason why
i couldn’t help a sorry soul whose heart was made of brass.

it’s worthless to sit here with clenchèd teeth and tell a lie:
our life is just a game of wait and see when we will die.

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