In this ing world of false smiles and obligatory happiness

In this ing world of false smiles and obligatory happiness, I am the drunkard who refuses to wash his brain with cheap optimism. I let the wave of filth flood over me, soaking my broken shoes and tired soul, While everyone else s themselves with feigned joy. No, I will not "get over it," damn it! I will stay here, in my mire, With a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a pen in the other, Writing poems on bar napkins and expired bus tickets, About how ed up life is and how beautiful it is in its ed-up-ness. My demons? They're drunk bastards I play poker with for souls. I offer them a shot of my distilled pain and together we howl at the moon, Drawing maps of despair on the skin of whores and failed poets, Each scar a verse, each hangover an unwritten epic. On this journey to the bottom of the bottle and existence, I discover that the emptiness inside me is actually a bar open 24/7, And melancholy is the woman who has never left me, Though she had every reason to do so. I am an explorer of cosmic hangovers, a cartographer of urban sadness, An alchemist turning regrets into poetry and piss into wine. And while the world puts on plastic masks and two-cent smiles, I display my scars like medals earned in a war with myself. So, off with your happiness advice! Let me drink my sorrow, Smoke my loneliness, and write about the ugly beauty of life. Because in this ty world, the only sincerity is at the bottom of a glass And in verses written with blood on the walls of bar restrooms.