I don't get along with my friend Jack.
He's always viciously at my throat.
He seems to burn me in every which way.
Strangely, I never remember him doing so.
This other guy, Jim, is much nastier to me.
His bite is bloodier, still.
I end up brawling on his behalf.
Red prints on the window sill.
I try to shut Jack up with vodka and calm Jim down with gin.
It works, but it's always much too late when we get home.
But apparently, we all make quite a ruckus getting in.
If someone's there, they always leave. And we're alone.
They're alienating, but they comfort me in the lonely.
Since my friends grow scarce, they bring around theirs: Miller and Bud.
I guess that they're harmless. They're welcome to stay.
I don't have much, but they fill me with lots of I don't know what.
I guess my lover grew jealous and wanted to separate us.
"Come with me." In their arms, at the beach. We frolic.
I blindly follow where they lead and repeat the words urged:
"Hi, my name is... and I'm an alcoholic."
It seemed that the love was feigned; forcing words so cruel.
I stopping following, I stopped reciting. ...They left.
Jim raged and Jack screamed. Vodka, gin, keep them quiet.
Miller told me about a Captain named Morgan. But then Bud said tequila was best.
I forget a lot of things. I have years only others know.
I feel as aged as the fire that I down.
I whine to wine about the stranger looks from strangers.
It seems I fall into depression, but they all numb the pain out.
I made them a family since my own didn't want me.
I sometimes feel that I'm drowning, but they assure me I'm not to blame.
They help me fly, never minding the crash landing.
But hey, drowning and flying. They're one and the same.