Alcoholics Ballard

A bitter and twisted tale to follow, everyday the same as tommorw, same old madness that will follow, empty dreams and a heart that's hollow. Ill begin each day the usual way, look in the mirror and see decay, a hopeless soul is what they say, still dressed in the clothes of yesterday. I sit on my bed with no real plans, except for liquid, to steady my hands, frantically search my bedsit floor, till i find what i'm looking for. A half empty can of a real strong beer, lost under the bed for maybe a year, sit back on the bed with ergency and speed, can to my lips for the liquid i need. with every swallow the shakes dissapear, twenty four hours till again the'll appear, with ergency for more i head for the door, checking my pockets to reveal my last score. Now out on the street i encounter a stranger, paranoid feelings as if my life were in danger, stare at the floor to avoid eye contact, and focus my attention on my beer contract. as i walk i scan the floor for butts, so i dont waste money on buying roll ups, long ones a bonus but short ones a start, for when i get home ill pull them apart. arrive at the shop and drool at his stock, calculating what i can get for my twenty spot, eight cans of tennents and two bottles of cider, then proceed to pay the shop minder. the usual pleasentrys as i pay, and as i leave he bids a good day, with the job half done i head back to my slum, not quite a walk and not quite a run. arrive back home and slam the door, just as the sweats begin to pour, sit back on my bed place beers on the floor, the liquid profits of my score, drink the day back into the night, slowly more getting as high as a kite, drowning self sorrow and drowning self pain, to keep myself from going insaine. now a waste of a life i have to agree, but i cannot deny that life was me.