Part 2 Or In Other Words A Final Copy

Salt a gin and tonic, It’s too dry. Assault my temple with sin, Be honest, You like the rye. Look me in my honest eye, Conversations with myself are the fondest, Because no one understands me better when I rhyme. Took a pen and across the paper it slides, Scribble out the oddest lines. Apply pressure to the page, Trickle out ink until the pen has died. Wet ink is promised to eventually dry, But tomorrow isn’t promised, For some reason I can’t help but question why? After four portions of Moët fine wine, I tend to think of life as if it’s all just a waste of time. If tomorrow could be withdrawn then what’s the point of the “grand design”? If tomorrow I wake up past dawn, Should I consider myself only one step closer to dying? Don’t overstep, The temple has redrawn the walls and implores you to walk within the lines. It’s not perfect, But nothing’s wrong with second best. When it stops hurting, In comes walking Sudden Death. We can’t always be our very best, Attempting perfect, It feels like burning, The scars left behind showcase regret.