Cigarettes filling the air
Ash lying on the tables and the floor;
Drinks standing on an old weak shelf
Booze filled shot glasses,
I count twelve.
Wine in my hair,
on my clothes,
why do I have to care,
Tequila in shattered bottles
Vodka poured down onto the wooden tables.
Why would I waste my stupid time
for a poor and dirty dime,
for the already beaten up slot machine?
Why is this bar so dusty,
so torn apart from being cozy and unique?
Why is this bar so heavy from thousands of hangovers,
with my eyelids closing in heaviness?
Maybe I’m tired.
Maybe I’m wasted.
Maybe I just don’t know.
Maybe I really want to go home.