Beer Stained Porcelain

Self defeating medicated drunken slurs on the town.
As we holy drunken fools search for the point,
drowning itself in the pints of beer and the stiff whiskey drinks,
the Devil grinning Barmaids work their magic.
The room eventually spins as I strive to just not give up.
Sometimes I do
and sometimes I forget that it was an option.
And for that,
my luck indirectly shines through my self destructing
thinly
laced
gut.
A cancerous life style this all seems to have become.
A dark age.
A age of running and of ramblin.
A age of misdirected nights in the shady mist of backroom bars and whores.
A age where I now fear may be up to,
God forbid,
Somebody,
to finally throw over the table and yell,
"GOOD JESUS! CHRIST ALMIGHTY! WE'VE LOST IT! AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO SEES?!"
Only for the words to be lost and forgotten
as the froth of a very darkly brewed beer disappears over salivating lips.

Vacancy is the fear.
That I and everyone else have become vacant.
Empty.
Long lost sullen eyes noticing nothing but the eye of the bartender,
holding out a fiver for a over priced drink that you never,
truly,
want to tip for.

Once that exchange has been made,
they've not only taken the minimum wage check you've slaved for,
but now,
they have a piece of your soul.
Just another piece of many split and torn and spread far to thinly
across the troublesome thing that is just simply living.

Truly what a man must need is to sometimes be left alone in the solace of his room.
A place to simply 'hide'.
This is what has been lost.
The constant expectation to be constantly sociable,
or even enjoyable,
has skewed a simple idea,
of being alone.