I woke up alone as often I do.
I woke up in spite of the fact I truly did not give a fuck to see
the light of the day.
There were no cocktails for breakfast, no false pleasure, but at
least that narrative beat false hope any day of the week.
The older you get, the more you must sacrifice simply to keep
moving along.
You may shed weight, addictions, lovers, and friends, and
eventually, for that last part of the track, you may ultimately
abandon your memories along with your mind.
Just to find your final destination, spent alone in some old folks
home.
Crazy as a shit house rat lost to everyone, including yourself.
Life definitely is not for the faint of heart or the most rational of
mind.
Good thing I abandoned that organ long ago.
But I still keep an eye out upon this road to see if someone
has abandoned a perfectly good liver.
So if we ever we were to spend the night together only for you
to awake in an ice bath you'll have to forgive my manners in
not asking first.
We all got to do whatever it takes just to keep us going along
the way.
I'm held together by super glue and duct tape with some lost
hopes thrown in for good measure.
I'm still here even though I don't have a fucking clue why.
John Patrick Robbins is a Southern Gothic writer.
His work has been published in Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Punk Noir Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Disturb The Universe, Cold Rambler, Piker Press and here at the Dope Fiend Daily.
His work is often dark and always unfiltered.
