The bottle

Cursed I was, the day I became friends with the fountain of false comfort, and the avenue of false mirth, the bottle. One shot for my pain, and one shot for my sorrow. I lost my consciousness but my problems still stayed, to mock me every time I tried to feel alive. I lost my cool, and lost my way home. Oh sunset at the bar, drowning in dream and confused talks, of a smattering of saliva from drunken women with morals so loose. I loved the bottle, for it made me alive every night, but every morning, I wake up dead. Hark, I can hear her calling from over the bottle and I wheeze back in my stupor, telling her to wait for I already was on my way. Two more for my blues and indeed I see blue when my head meets the table, and overnight I sleep, covered with the warmth of my vomit, comforted by what I loved and lost. I yell into the night, that oh my soul is willing but the flesh it weak, and when the door closes, I leave my heart behind and stagger on home to an empty house. And as darkness swallows me, so does my sorrow, for I know that the bottle is a leech, and it truly is drinking of me dry. I was a beautiful man, before I met the bottle, and overnight I grew old and lanky, and my skin became rich of wrinkles. Overnight my suit was shredded to threads, and my conscience leached to a dry pulp. I was a free man, but then the bottle brought with it a chain, and it bound me to a dark corner, left me alone and desolate. Pain is my comfort, and though I strive to numb me down, I only get to start the giant flames, as the bottle pours its evil down my sleeves, and irrigates my throat with disease and pure lechery. My body is a prison, and the inmates of my heart come out only when the tongue had been oiled. They break their chains and roll down the chambers breaking bridges in their wake. Oh at times I am full of drink but I fail to get drunk. I get old and mess up my fallen youth, but what else have I, yet the bottle took it all?