Wrap me up in alcohol

 

Blanket Love

 

Third beer in

Still the anxiety

Seeps through the legs

Like a bad blood transfusion

Reminding me of my fallibilities

And how strong

It actually is.

 

Relief will come soon

Followed by a brazenness

That I rarely feel

Though wish it were often so.

 

Or should I simply accept

The way I am?

Negative

Melancholic

And self-destructive.

 

I wouldn’t treat another

This way

Yet, I can’t silence

The inner tormentor

Who betrays me often

Whilst also keeping me honest

And real.

 

A conundrum

I can’t seem to unravel.

 

Perhaps the worst thing is

The recent realisation

That I’ll still be this way

At 75

If I make it that far

And possibly worse

And I’m already

So tired.

 

Some sanctuary then

At 55

Is still being able to

Find relief

Within the false blanket

Of booze

Which is only now

Wrapping me in its warmth.

 

Soothed

At last

For tonight only.

 

 

11.1.23  7.45 pm

First poem of 2023.