A process of progress

I kept pouring drinks,

pulling my cigarettes from the pack.

It seemed like a ritual

for every night.

Trying to write

the things that i do.

until I've run out of

the gas that drove me.

Maybe i'd finish the words

that I lived

and if i didn't i'd pass out

drunk with

cigarette ash smeared

across the paper.

A poem or story

to add to the pile

when I awoke

on the couch

awake and alive

once again.