They say drunks get sentimental with age.
The old dog’s , prefer to sleep more in the sun than to chase cars .
The fight just leaves us and we are left sad, empty and often alone.
I do not believe I have lost my edge but I do often question my purpose.
I pen lines and no longer care if people read them.
I no longer write to entertain, I am simply passing time.
A wasted line and another hour past.
A shared drink with my only true friend and the voices in my head.
They no longer concern themselves with the opinions of others as well.
I guess that’s why drinking alone feels so right.
The liquor’s warmth has replaced my passion and memories have replaced you.
Old dogs die hard as so will I.
Alone underneath the sun.
John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Black Shamrock Magazine. His work has appeared here at Punk Noir Magazine, Fearless Poetry Zine, 1870 Magazine, Piker Press, San Pedro River Review, Heroin Love Songs, The Dope Fiend Daily, Sacred Chickens.
His work is always unfiltered.