Intoxicated,
My mind stays whirring.

The blender of reality,
Dreams of fiction.

Too immature,
Maturity doesn't mix.

A nocturnal lover,
With a heart begging for warmth.

From a touch,
A smile.
****,
Even a word.

Propaganda of self hate,
Plastered to my brain.

Maybe if I drink,
I could feel loved again.


-Tré