'how fucking <br />trite, cliche, (add in <br />anything you'd like here) , ' <br /> <br />i say, to my <br />reflection in the <br />window. <br /> <br />shirtless, alone, cigarette <br />lit at the tip, and a bottle <br />of whiskey hangs almost empty in my hand. <br /> <br />'you drink for hours, not because <br />you like the feeling - <br />just so you can go and write.' <br /> <br />i look at the bottle, which is now <br />empty and look at my car. then the keys <br />on the hook. <br /> <br />'oh! and i'm tired of being <br />alone, i'd rather not be a poet <br />anymore. it's just not for me.' <br /> <br />my reflection says casually, 'maybe <br />love will be like driving.' <br />and i know i have had too much <br /> <br />to drink.<br /><br />Travis Bowden<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/maybe-love-will-be-like-driving/
