Good Morning, Good Raps, Good Morrow, Good Luck

Weightless Whisky Bottles

I am beginning to realize

I am not the sum of all my dreams.

And I’m hoping that these stones that I am swallowing

Somehow don’t drown me.

You can watch while my soul gets lost

Between god and a bottle of scotch.

Keeping afloat by

Creating clouds beneath my feet.

Rising on promises I hope I can survive to see.

Trying to find a definition of a man

That falls somewhere on a word between

Disappointment and defeat.

Success looks more to me like the promenade of death

And when I look down at my hand

It is grasped by a ghost of me.

It’s funny when I think

It’s what I’ve always been

A man that’s neither here nor there

Far better to remember than to look upon.

I’m finding these weightless whisky bottles

However empty they may be

Always seem to bury me.