“Memoirs Of An Alcoholic”

Sweating small things like a glass of ice tea in the middle of a southern July 

I favored myself sweetened in spirits 
A friendly ghost only I could see
I took to my pockets for a small bit of change 
I found nothing but the same thing
No new colors
No nuance of old happy 
In the forgetting, I remembered that one day we will inherit the soil like our last names 
Today:
I promised to squirm through bad storms to try to make myself a good seed 
I want to make myself fruitful lest no garden will grow fermented 
-Joshua Tool 03/01/17

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