-Crutches-

This drink in my hand is a crutch.
It comes with unique pros and cons.
It helps me when I have to talk.
It doesn’t when I need to walk.

Depending on the number of ounces, I can either make things better or make them worse.
I never know the outcome before the first sip.
The fact that I do now drink so often can be interpreted as both a gift and a curse.

There is a razor thin line
Between sobriety and savagery.
To thread it through a needle’s eye
Is more about that challenge than it is the accomplishment.
Or lack thereof.

And then there are the days of the week that end with the letter Y.
Nights where I sit back and let my body take control.
I perfected the art of autopilot long before Elon Musk tried to make it cool.
I’m also just as dangerous.
Merely a few steps before I crash my body, wrap my body around a stray pole.

But damn, can I wield a sword.
Somewhat as gracefully as a samurai.
Or rather, a tongue fueled by spirits.
Whiskey, bourbon, vodka, anything but mine.
But after the first stroke of a syllable, there’s no other choice but to listen.

If honesty has always been the best policy, then why do so many lie?
I’d prefer to stab you in the front and watch you bleed out through these bloodshot eyes.

This glass in my hand was once a crutch.
In more ways than one.
It helped me when I had something to say.
It didn’t when I had to walk away.

Another attempt at some freeform/spoken word poetry. I think this one came out alright. Most of this came to me during a drive home from work. I think the spoken word performance included me dropping an empty drink glass in my hand, and once the glass broke i’d blend into a Stone Cold Steve Austin type performance. In the end, i digressed.