Bottom of The Bottle
You sit at that bar stool staring into that amber liquid in that glass, Looking for answers that just aren't there. With every sip you swear you escape just a little bit, Swear you feel things fade with the buzz, Whispering promises you'll never keep. You swear each morning after that you'll never do this again, Then your liquid mistress starts calling, And off you go, Searching for the answers at the bottom of the bottle. She has cost you so much, Has only paid back with tears and pain. Still... Sign in to see full entry.