I sit with two thorns in my mouth,
One for you and one for them.
Wallowing in the cesspit of my mind,
One punctures my lip with words I don’t mean,
One slashes my tongue and I seem to keen,
If you heard me tomorrow morning,
My words would be composed like cherry blossoms, yearning
For your contentment and composure;
Hardly any exposure,
To harsh situations when my drunken words bloom,
I would sit there in silence as you enter the room,
And cultivate irrational dreams in my head,
Then think of the logic instead.
Apologizing for drunken parables ,
And spilling beer on your lapels,
Is not how I usually spend my time.