Typing Life Away

another drunk night, it
just feels right sitting in front
of the typer pounding the keys
like tomorrow won’t arrive. the day
tomorrow won’t dawn shall come, sooner
rather than later, and it’s all
right. drinking, smoking, and shooting
every night as if it’s the last.
the keyboard pays the price, as ashes
land on the worn-out keys. two spare
ones sit in the closet and more wine’s poured in
the waterglass, the second 5L box is getting
dangerously empty. another lost night, another
day doomed to hangover hell, and it’s
fucking alright as long as the typer’s catching
fire during forgotten night hours.