Alcohole Poem by Corey Baker

Always sad, lost or indifferent,
I send myself through a door of cold sweats, drunken praying,
Anti-paternal sterotyping, and a cache of ridicule.

They will never be straight again, crooked and disturbed,
leaving them alone will make the pain leave.
I love my AlcoHole.

The mothers are wishing for their children to stop,
but its already been done, the Hole is now covered.
My own poverty is the antidote.

My throat swells and bulges, the night after and before
I haven't had a dropp to drink, even though the bottles
outlines my form on the floor.