Every Man Needs His Muse So Why Can't Mine Be The Bottle

I no longer find myself attached to another.
A muse long gone whom I wrote for.
When I would talk about loving and lusting, her.

I find myself turning to the alternative, drinking,
The catalyst for drunken advances and countless romances, for others.
For me it's a bottle of fuel for my thinking.

I no longer find inspiration in another,
I seek the drink to fill the void,
Not the conventional void left behind either.

Memories fading and the muse I once had is gone.
No longer remembering tiniest of details,
A time where I had inspiration when being alone.

Somehow they've escaped me and I feel wrong.
Wrong in the fact I've forgotten,
Not seeking a muse for long.

Just long enough to capture that spark,
I find myself repeating more and more.
I can't even think of a word that rhymes with spark; ark, park...spark.

Failed attempts at writing and remembering,
Remembering the days of a hopeless romantic.
I seem to have lost it, the days when I was living.

When I could deliver a line that was sad but funny.
Story telling about the one who got away,
My perspective changed, not solid but shit and runny.

Tender days of youth, believing I knew it all.
Changed to a nonbeliever in the ways of before,
No longer allowing this ignorant fool to fall.

Back to the bottle that cures all,
Heartbreak, heartache, infections, erections.
Waiting for a time again until I can fall.