Mourning Cursive - Writing Room

my eyelids feel heavy it's been too many hours since i recall what sleep felt like my hair and beard are a disheveled wreck working on my sixteenth whiskey sour On the rocks, hold the fruit and smoking another cigarette countless crumbled packs sit empty on my hardwood desk and the surrounding floor it's a mess in this darkened writing room lit only by the computer screen and one dying lantern soon to extinguish its flame outside the snow continues to fall piling high and deep pulling the frigid chill of white into my writing room my fingers caress the keys of this battered keyboard stained with ashes, alcohol, and things i couldn't even guess upon nothing of any good quality being written words i've used before words i've used incorrectly words i am past the stages of being tired of using words i've given up on i listen to dead authors and poets that no one has ever heard of serenading me thru the worn out turntable i should just give up, give into failure, i'm good at it but i can't, even in this disheartened state somewhere between the flipping of records and the bombardment of keys being slammed my lantern finally dies leaving me in the glow of my computer and the warmth of another whiskey poured in my writing room i am left lingering haunted with the words that i am choked upon haunted with the last page of my story haunted with these final words: The End.