On the Importance of an Adequately Stocked Wine Rack

Waking up with a thundering chest

Another night, another day, no rest

These thoughts in my head are jumbled around

And I cannot make sense of what's insane or sound

So I sip on the wine, and poster about

And pick up a pen to write it all out

But there's not enough words to make sense of me

And there's no going back to what could not be

Acceptance is futile, a foregone thought

Peace of mind, neither borrowed nor bought

Now there's smeared ink and a wine stain or two

And I pour another glass to make sense of you