False Pretense

Sitting at this countertop
Wishing i could drown my thoughts
Debating on reaching down for alcohol
And giving this glass a little life
For these few weeks have been long
And disasters have been seen
With a bright, blue sky here and there
And mental storms inbetween
It's on nights like this I wonder
What would Bukowski do?
Would he write down his word profound?
Or would he pour another drink and find something to smoke?
I doubt that I'll do either one
Even though I'm feeling like i should
Thinking what good has abstaining done?
Hell, what is the point of being good?
Maybe i could believe in gods
Or even steal the things i want
Maybe i could close my eyes for once at night
And not dread the thoughts that haunt.
But who gives a fuck when it's said and done
I can't even tell if I'm making sense
I've just grown tired of my pathetic dreams
Foolish thoughts
Ugly days
Lonely nights
Toss and turns on broken beds
Media panic
Religious fervor
Political promises
Subtle bigotry
Small-minded bickering
And especially those who feign to wish me well
And do so under false pretense.