Here I sit
poutishly typing words
into a computer.
Still in dancing shoes
and a flowing skirt,
and still drunk from too many cheap beers and cheap wine
all cultivating a headache which will surely last into the morning.
Wondering why I get here so often,
To the head pounding, anguished, emotional
stage of intoxication.
Wondering why I cry over the comments of strangers,
Why I play those words on my internal audiotape,
Why I allow them to trample through my head
And steadily ruin my mood.
Wondering if the fun itself
merits such a downfall.
And wondering if one can ever reach
the high times
and just walk down slowly.