Floor.

Why does it take, reaching the bottom of a bottle, or a line off the table, to feel anything, anything at all;

why am I hellbent on destruction of everything good, I come across;

what is my obsession with the fall;

where did it go wrong, when did I veer off the beaten path;

when did I decide I would wreak havoc on my own existence, when did I accept this shitty hand;

believe me I wasn’t dealt it, I seek no pity or acceptance, I just want answers;

but I can’t find them in myself, and I dont want any of your help;

I don’t really know anymore, and I don’t think I care enough to explore, just pour me another drink;

but wait you can still help me, please wake me if I pass out on the floor.

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