Audible vodka.
-a downward spiral
I guess it's gotten to the point that the birds just aren't singing anymore. They watched you drown your lungs, the last chirp escaping as you drowned your last Mickey. Sometimes I think they wish your eyes would sparkle again, but they're dead to the world and so are your lies. Everyone else stopped listening yesterday; your lies spill more bulls--- then the cows at the chop shop. See how they squeal for release?- you never wanted out, the tenderness of the alcohol dripping across and down your tongue is just enough for you lately.
I'm going to take a backseat to your problems now. I wish I could take away your pain and your problems, but it seems that the most I can do is pour myself a drink and give it to you. No matter how much I try you've flown away like the birds in the winter; I can't even hear you chirping anymore. I guess I'm slightly disturbed by the turn around in you: your friends used to be more important, but now the bottle comes first and maybe- finally- when it's empty, your eyes will meet ours and you'll crack a drunken smile. I keep apologizing, because it's my fault the birds left you. You're dragging me by a single strand of hair and it's hurting, but I'll only ever receive one apology from you, yet you'll receive a bucketful of mine.
I won't leave you, because I don't know how. But I wish the birds would come back to you, put some music back into your step and some life back into your eyes. I'm tired of watching you drown yourself and watching your grip slowly slip away. I'll grab your hand, I'll speak to you--
but my voice is really just audible vodka.
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