poem and pain like gin

by Marocharim

for something made in nature’s way:
every drop of you tears me apart.

you fuel my spirit and burn my soul
the invisible flame escapes my breath
and engulfs me in a smell i can’t stand.

you open my eyes to a dizzy world.
you hurt me, and yet i take you in.

pain is like glass of gin:
cold and bitter.  i should force myself
to take you out, but i drink more of you
and chase you, go after every drop in the glass
in my hand.

a hand that could have been attached
to a worthier arm, controlled
by a worthier mind, to make
a worthier poem.

and yet, to the last drop i take you in
a glass of gin
that every night’s cycle will begin
to replace the pain deep within
with something alcoholic.

something to cover up the pain
deep inside my heart.  the kind not experienced now.
instead, anticipated.  to feel it in time, when i can stand it.