I swill the man made liquid
Down my throat.
What are you thinking?
How dare you gloat!
Another day squandered
- of no use.
Like me
In my self abuse.
I want to be numb,
So I succumb,
To my yearning of intoxicated bliss.
Who will it be today? It's a hit or miss
The butcher, the baker,
the indian chief; or
Maybe the clown, the bully,
or the one full of grief.
Run - get away,
Save yourself from me.
I hate it here,
So why do you be?
I'm starting to hurt,
It's killing me
My pores stench of ferment;
The black poison - I leak.
Oh man! I want to start over,
I promise I'll stop!
But, it all depends
On how long the Doc says I got.
But I'm awake now and now I see;
My life has been a blur,
with hardly,
any memory's
Twenty years
Too late.
It is,
For me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hey Mr Korsakoff, here's another victim (if I remember rightly) . Love, Fran xx