Grit in a glass.

Confidence in a cup.

Call it what you will,

as long as you buy another

gin and tonic.

 

I'm consistent in my ways,

you're just another tab, that's got to pay.

But you're staring at the bottom of your glass,

with the farthest look in your eyes,

and yet you can't seem to see,

the depth of your demise?

 

I've grown common to my habits,

my only resignation.

But you're drowning in your drink,

just so you can see

your own crystallized face, right underneath.

That really can't be healthy.

 

With just one look, I can see,

the only sex you've had is on the beach,

with a gal most likely named Shirley.

And yet you're telling me,

 

You're what's trapped

at the bottom of Pandora's jar.

While the sickness, hate, and turmoil fled,

you stayed,

hoping to find a home,

in the all that empty space.

 

You love yourself too much,

but I don't know how.

You seem like the Echo of the man,

I may have known well.

 

A mirror's image of my own life

but I've got an ego half your size.

While you seem to have one,

with its very own half-life.

 

A poison in pursuit,

of his very next drink.

A tall glass of water,

balanced on the brink.

You think you're the best,

some cocky disheveled daredevil?

So does anyone

with your blood alcohol level.

 

But I can tell,

you're killing yourself.

You didn't even notice,

I haven't poured a thing.

I'm just an Echo of your Fate,

a dead man come to take

one last long look of a boy,

he used to be.

Now count out those shots,

till they feel more like a Mk-16.

One.

Two.