If teardrops could be bottled,
I'd have more bottles
Than my grandfather had of whiskey.
But my bottles
Are downed every night.
Poured down my throat.
Making the gaping wound,
Grow larger.
It did not heal,
Not today.
But maybe tomorrow,
Maybe tomorrow.
It burns the entire way down,
Like tequila.
Enjoying the burn,
Like a forest fire
Going on a rampage.
It is violent.
Fueled by fury,
By rage.
So down go the bottles
Down my throat.
I down my tears
That were made out of sadness,
Violently.
©5braincelz
5