Alcohol

They say it’s poison,
but it works.
It flows down my throat and carries my problems in its currents;
it quenches my undying thirst to find a life, while making it evaporate;
it lets me feel like I’m worth something, while others are disgusted.

They say I must stop,
but I can’t.
It’s the only way my problems will fade,
the only way my depression will die,
along with my brain and body.

They say I’m ruining my life,
but I don’t care.
It’s not like they care anyway.
They’re trying to steal my only source of happiness.

Why can’t they make me feel happy?
Why can’t they see that I’m miserable?
Why can’t they see that I’m trapped inside a glass bottle that sits on a dusty shelf in the club?
They need to free me;
pour me out into an open glass,
not stuff me down, further into the bottle, where all the unwanted sediment sits.