***WARNINGS - Alcohol Addiction & Suicidal Themes***

Sometimes my thoughts get cloudy,

Like I’m an outsider looking in.

Then the voices get so rowdy,

Telling me to drink and sin.

I step outside and look up high,

The forecast suggests rain.

A grey blanket across the sky,

And wrapped around my brain.

If I listen to the voices,

Then they relax their grip.

It leaves me with no choices,

A passenger to this trip.

At the bottom of the bottle,

Is the silence that I seek.

My throat an open throttle,

Every day of every week.

It leaves me feeling in a daze,

It leaves me feeling numb.

A mental fog of cloudy haze,

With aftertaste of rum.

A blade — the key to my escape,

Into the tub with eager dread.

I join the voices’ sharp intake,

Then paint the water cloudy red.