Jukebox

Old songs on repeat,

Staring glassy-eyed, over the rim of my sixth glass, no, seventh,

And losing track of the beginning of my thoughts when I get to the end. 

There is hope, however little,

Of finding my footing

And happier days

And glimpses of light at the end if the tunnel

Lots of writing, dreaming

But mostly getting from one day to the next without accidentally tripping into oncoming traffic. 

Bouncing around between bad days and not-so-bad,

Somewhere between tragically sad and numb,

Looking for the next foothold to grab on to. 

But of course, in the meantime,

Before those glimpses of light come,

We find ourselves staring at the bottom of our sixth, no, seventh glass

And 

Hoping. 

Cue. 

Now playing: happy music