At the Bottom of the Bottle Sits A Broken Piano and a Gun
I’ve become a footstool; is there anyone who hasn’t put their feet on me at some point?
And what of the bottom of this bottle, is there anyone who hasn't cursed me?
Worn strings on this J-45.
Dismissed and tossed aside.
I've been played and left behind.
Is there anything left for my inside?
I’m a piano with broken keys, an out of tune violin, a broken flute playing its broken song into the
Yet people look to me as if I'm whole
If only they could see my fractured soul
Fractured soul and fractured hearts.
I see the pistol, I see the bottle.
Just a distant line between here and there.
The throttle beckons and I turn away.
Purchased flowers on moldy stems, looks like my good intention will tomorrow
And like a lamp in the darkness, there’s an Angel on one shoulder, while there’s a shadow on
The open window, is it an opportunity to escape or a temptation to jump?
There's a birth certificate to my left,
It tells me I'm worthless and the edge is near.
I look down and look around.
Up or down, I say.
It's down either way.
Stairs reflect off glass through flickered flame, I can taste the bottom.
I can trace the outline of the story with tongue on gritted teeth
A sensate can orient themselves in a new space by careful attention but I attune myself to this
known space by inattention.
I ignore the letters, the scattered picks. Discarded lyrics, strewn about. I want to care but it isn't
But the Marlboro's are. I light, I smoke and drift away into the nothingness of your broken words.
Empty cans spill smoke with ash on the brims, counting moments between reasons, and the
piles' gettin big
How many empty bottles fill a broken heart? More than the amount on my desk. How many
hours of work will fill an empty nest? More than I have put in.
An unending void. A beating chest.
Harder, faster. Anxious thoughts
That wreck my mind.
The flame reflects against the pipe,
Chipped and broken glass,
It scars my lips and I settle into the darkness.
Someone paint me a bottle. Let my eyes drink it in, the inspiration I'm seeking is empty again,
maybe my past can consume me cause the future is grim
I look to the spirits
But not those in the sky
The ones that are brown
And help me feel high
I ask for signs
And they respond, Why?
Its a silent whisper of chaos and demise.
But, they answer. Emptied bottles and empty dreams.
Hearts like mine, I think, they don't do well with time.
They harden, like oaked barrels in my mind.
I search for answers in empty bags of despair, they empty themselves into my bloodstream.
Aloof and alone
My trauma is trouble and my questions are broke. The science in my cells slides swift in my
bones. Whether empty or full I still miss the girl. She's proof and I'm sold
The Writing Prompt: Write a collaborative Stream of conscious piece where each verse had to include an object in the room with you.
Written by @DaveK, @Shells, @MeeJong, and @ledlevee