Ink stains on my fingers, 
words laced with regret.
Each verse a reminder 
of the times I can't forget.

The bottle's empty now 
and so is all my hope.
My pen only knows how 
to write about the life
that's hanging by a rope.

My muse is long gone,
perhaps tired of my pain.
Leaving me with no song,
but the ones that cause my heart strain.

My vices, they've all won.
Their side effects in full bloom.
My poetry's undone,
leaving me consumed.

how I long for some release 
from this cycle that's got me beat.
To find a path of peace 
and a voice that can speak.

Until then, I'll keep writing..
words that sting like a knife.
Hoping someday all my fighting 
will bring me back to life.