The sewage-brown bottles sat on the coffee table and floor,

Some lying sideways, dripping a golden yellow substance, some standing upright,

Surrounding him in a taunting way,

Reminding him of who he’s become again.

His body has slumped on the worn, stained couch too many times,

Intoxicated, impaired as the tv quietly plays,

Barely able to understand what’s going on,

As he’s on the brink of losing consciousness.

He knew his self-defeating tendencies are appalling,

But there’s never help available for him,

So, he waited, barely getting through his disappointing life,

Desperate to muffle the pain he’s felt for years.

However, today is a special day,

The day he comes home,

Exaushted, yet proud of himself for getting help,

Winning the harsh war against his addiction.

He walked inside his tiny home,

Cleaning up the clutter of glass he left behind,

Though it was difficult,

As the bottles were giving him old, unsavory thoughts from before.

His mind recollected the dreadful memories against his will,

The suffering the cruel world forced on him,

The loneliness, the pain, the loss of hope,

He couldn’t forget any of it; it was overwhelming him.

So, to calm his depressive thoughts, he walked into the kitchen,

Hungry for a snack though most of his food was expired,

But when he opened the fridge door, it was like a sick joke,

As two, six-pack beer bottles were right there, staring at him…

The sewage-brown bottles sat on the coffee table and floor,

Some lying sideways, dripping a golden yellow substance, some standing upright,

Surrounding him in a taunting way,

Reminding him of who he’s become again.