There in the dismal glow
of the television screen
he finds himself crying again
not because it hurts
But because it's there again.
He Sits silently inside his chair
lost inside his own mind
as the tv spits its hues of
blues and greens onto his face.
A bottle of Jack
sits by his side
as his arm hangs
over the armrest
and his fingers dangle
but a mere space away.
The ice in his glass
has long since melted
but he prefers his Whiskey warm anyway
when the pain
has him so torn.
His whiskey stained tears
roll down his face
as he searches
for the logic of this darkness.
Remnants of the day
no longer linger
on his walls
but the wear of the night
hangs low under his eyes.
His lips have not tasted
a sweet touch
for so long
but find the bittersweet company
of a warm whiskey bottle every night.
The thick smell of tears
and whiskey
and sweat
hang heavy in his room
as he sits inside
his own stench of bitterness
to question his darkness
as it knows all of his pain.
Drenched
in his own depressing filth
he grabs that empty glass again
and pours his liquid destruction again
not because it hurts
but because that pain is there again.
-Armando Torres
