Bottling Woe Is Me

Bottoms of bottles are mainly saliva              
since my soul drips as bits              
like passing, shattering ships steered towards            
poison aiming to kill inside ya,            
             
or rather inside of me            
             
My wounds too wet to be seen bleeding,            
my throat too stretched              
to be busy              
screening            
out            
that elixir              
of upset, I'm wrecked            
by            
those 26 ounce pillars              
of bad dreams,            
             
those killers of women, men and children,            
those fillers of              
mad fiends,            
bottles            
             
have me weeping            
only to see me              
acquire their last drops through              
sad schemes            
or            
             
by any means            
             
My mind's eye              
has seen            
             
most horrible thoughts            
as              
I am feeling              
withdrawals,    
stuck, sick and hot            
             
I'm feeling filled to top of              
patch riddled hat with            
scalp yacked steam            
my eyes              
large black dots            
             
Toxic              
roots              
grow bottles              
tall              
enough to make            
sober parachutes torn  
as they are touched and             
turn rotten            
             
Parents of air of              
drunk heirs, exhaled through despair            
in dark coffins adopted my once              
glad genes            
             
I saw a doomed family            
sailing down the Styx and              
barbecuing,              
             
so I hopped in foamy river              
seamlessly              
like skinny finger            
through              
fat ring            
             
to see            
what was happening,          
             
Glued myslef to              
summer fling            
for a pound of beer and              
chicken wings            
gladly            
             
beneath a morgue of              
             
false sheen            
             
and it's been            
hard to ween              
speed off of              
full throttle,            
this has been            
life in bottomless bottles            
me,              
a mad thing            
             
in need of life      
long asylum,            
trapped in a glass,              
unaware of the world            
and it's happenings,            
this my cold fall off,    
shivering          
thinking what happened to spring?
This is sad me
This, Zachary