A broken dinner on the table, A glass of juice, It's only companion. A magazine open along side, The music has stopped, And he goes to change the tone. Takes out what was in there before, And looks above to see what is next, And like a reflex, It's depressing. Pressing the play button the machine, He now tries to count the Duritz's, That are singing the music, He longs to sing along to. The sun still shines bright, It's just after six. The hopes for the evening, Are still packaged in its cardboard case. A guest is all he asks, Someone to look at, Someone to talk to. Nothing more, nothing less. He now lays on the couch, Believing what's left to believe. Singing along to the songs, That make him feel worse, But it still knows him better, Than anyone else.
This is the archive of previous writings of the Opiated Sherpa. It's mostly poetry that dates back to 1997, back when I was a sapling of 16. And then since then... this.