No Lines (Left To Write)

I wake up a lot
with no recollection of the last
eleven hours,
cut and bleeding,
no hat or cellphone,
sometimes no shirt,
or even my watch;
such a waste
of sobriety and time
staring at the clock 11:11
no thought to make a wish.

What is it that draws me
to abuse intoxicants
when all I see is a blank canvas
at my desk?

Is it my own insecurities,
a desire to challenge my limits,
the need for a thrill,
social connection,
or to release my emotions?

Could it be my connection
to dead poets,
all who've held the bottle tightly,
inhaled their last smoke cloud,
or is it my own demons
that I'm trying to kill?

Maybe it's my thirst
for interactions that allow
me to reflect upon an incident
and write what I feel,
or maybe it's simply the fact
that I'm human and I do it
because I can,
even times when I shouldn't
but what's the point if I can't
cash in my skeletons
when I'm buried in the dirt
with no lines left to write?