Drunken Piss.

It's a bad metaphor.
It's a really, bad metaphor.
It's a really, disgusting, bad metaphor.
You stand there, bloodshot eyes, staring and your dick.
Your dick, the dick you know so well.
The dick you've been using effortlessly your whole life.
The dick that pees.

But you're not peeing.
Why? Because you're drunk.
Wasted.
Smashed.
Stupid as hell.
And you've been in there for 15 minutes,

Just staring at your apparently malfunctioning dick.

It's a bad metaphor.
Because I sit here—correction,
I've SAT here
for four hours now.
Staring.
Because I was/am alone.
Thinking, about why I'm alone.
Thinking about us.

Just staring at the apparently malfuctioning us.
And this is the best poetry I've got.
Because this is all I've got.
There's nothing left.

Why can't I write anymore? Why am I so uninspired?
Why is it that happiness is arsenic to my ability to breathe poetic oxygen?
Oh, but there it was.
See, I'm complaining of the last 8 months of my joyous life,
So void of flowing and flowery speech due to the leech that is happy-love.
It has been cruel and unkind and left me empty.
Empty enough to finally see that at the depths of my ocean mind,

This lock-ness-poet lies.

That's all I got right now.