Glass Of Wine
When you yell at me, it hurts so much inside, like a knife, dragging through my insides. I try to yell back, my voice goes unheard, so I don't even bother, I just retreat to writing poems, that hopefully will be heard. I pour a glass of wine, sweet to my liking, a passion for the drink I am thriving. Each glass better than the last, I am opening up slowly to write about my past. Your presence goes un-noticed, with every glass I pour, I wonder if you'd even notice if I walked out the front door? Every sip makes me care even less, about the fight we just had, I don't even care if we go to bed mad. And as I sit and wrote this poem, my mind free from anger, what will tomorrow bring, will this fight linger? But what do I care? I have my freedom drink, how much lower must I sink? Into a stupor, I have sunk, I can't even think straight, for I am Drunk! What were we fighting about again? My mind begins to wander, I am growing tired...