Sober truths are the hardest to tell (a poem)

Today’s entry.

Ask any drunk
he’ll tell you that
truths dry up
when the liquor stops flowing

cannot scale those walls
without 80 proof
to cut them down to size

Not to mention that
the sober poet
hates the sound
of his own voice

Without that drink
to open the gates
there’d be nothing coming out at all
(at least, in severe cases)

All the while
memories scratch-scratch-scratch
at the door
monsters and demons
in hot pursuit

It may be time
for the poet
to get used to
drinking ink—

(13 September 2017)