Too Much

This is a sobering thought
as I sit in the company of children
getting ready to do it differently.
My throat is on fire,
my stomach swims against a violent tide,
my mind is drowning
and all sense is a vague memory.

I yearn to lash out at my own face
as last night becomes the last night.
I am truly sorry;
I romanticised this life style:
A carefree swagger through intoxication.
It is merely bile without coordination.

There are no more bottles in the fridge,
the red wine has been sunk,
and my head hangs heavy.
Do not look to this lifestyle
with passion
or any other positive connotation.
I can’t even get to the end
of this poem
without needing to throw up
the niggling memories
of last night,
the last night.