Bottles, Cans, and Glasses
If I had them all,
they'd build a mountain.
Bottles, cans and glasses.
All the years,
all the times,
I tipped them back.
And those days after,
they got worse and worse.
Until I had to stop.
Stop!
But it sure was a nice ride,
smooth,
relaxed,
fun,
life seemed to be a lovely high.
And all I had to do was tip another.
Bottles, cans and glasses.
But the hangovers,
those wasted days,
laying there saying,
over and over,
I will never do this again.
I will stop.
I will.
But I never would.
By evening,
I was tipping them back.
Back on the nice ride.
Relaxed, smooth, fun,
and life was so much easier to take.
It got worse and worse,
those next days,
the wasted life was becoming my life.
I hoped to stop someday.
Just stop!
I did.
But it was hard.
My body gave me no choice.
An allergic reaction.
Either be sick the rest of your life,
or give it up and get some health back.
Those first three months were the hardest.
Then something happened.
I came out of the fog.
And who should I see?
A man, a friend of a friend,
laying in the park,
middle of the day.
Completely whacked out of his skull,
passed out.
And it hit—THAT—could have been me!
I walked away, thankful.
Damn I thought,
there but for the grace of…
Sobriety.
What a gift.
It's my precious possession.
And I am so glad to be out of it.
Quit of it.
Finished with those,
bottles, cans and glasses.
