Dust bunnies drank all my scotch.

I haven't smiled in three god damn days
and my hand is sore
from spilling my guts
luckily the paper
spreads its wings, opens spine
to catch my entrails
via pen
via type

I fall asleep without warning
and breathe alone, at random
each step is a heartbeat
waiting to trip, ready to fall
face down as an infant without reaction
every line break
and every period is just
a blink of my eye
waiting to pop from my skull
and roll onto the floor

under the bed
where i hide my whiskey
where the dust bunnies protect my wine
my vice
my daily nightcap

somebody tell them to stop
throwing parties
till all hours of the morning
with their electronic
hiphoporchestropop

now, i have no problem with dust bunnies
living under my bed
and i sure wont kick them out
but, drunk dust bunnies
I hate!

I haven't smiled in three days
as i walk like a zombie
my head still rattles
from last night
so, again, i spill my guts.