Routine

A friend of mine, is in such pain,

that I may never mend;

and every night I try in vain,

to find that torment's end.


I stay quite close, right by her side,

as liquor she imbibes.

She hides beneath fermented lies,

on stools, in dim lit dives.


The night drags on, and wears her out,

her shoulders bear the weight;

until last call, the barkeep shouts

and leaves her to her fate



I help her up, and help her home,

I carry her to bed;

and lay her in her drunken tomb

to rest her heavy head.



I listen to her beating heart

and hope that mine won't break.

I know that nothing real can start

while living something fake.