1_21Guns
January 14th, 2011, 02:24 PM
An empty bottle, a broken glass.
Destroyed, crashed, smashed.
The wine may be red,
but it's not the same as that from the vein.
Out cold on the floor, nobody can save her.
She'll wake up later, pretending she still cares.
A heavy smell of stale booze has posioned the air,
The high percentages have left stains on her chair.
Even the skelteons in her closet crumble out clutching web wrapped bottles,
even the spiders couldn't escape the bottomless hell hole.
Every surface in the house marked with a circle,
A shape representing a cycle, never ending yet incomplete.
Destroyed, crashed, smashed.
The wine may be red,
but it's not the same as that from the vein.
Out cold on the floor, nobody can save her.
She'll wake up later, pretending she still cares.
A heavy smell of stale booze has posioned the air,
The high percentages have left stains on her chair.
Even the skelteons in her closet crumble out clutching web wrapped bottles,
even the spiders couldn't escape the bottomless hell hole.
Every surface in the house marked with a circle,
A shape representing a cycle, never ending yet incomplete.