Foolosopher

The bar is my cathedral,
deep and dark as the hole in my soul.
The scent of cheap whiskey and cigarette smoke
mixes with the sound of lonely old men
sipping their sorrows away.

This is my church,
where I come to confess my sins
to the bartender who listens
and offers me another drink.
The neon lights flicker like hope
in the eyes of the drunkards
who stumble in and out
in a constant cycle
of regret and redemption.

I write poems on napkins
and spill my heart onto the bar
like a spilled drink
as the jukebox plays
the same old songs
that speak to my brokenness.

The women here are tough,
with hearts of steel
and scars that tell their stories.
They glance at me,
half curious, half indifferent.
But I know better than to try
to win them over
with my drunken charms.

Outside, the city is alive
with all its dirty secrets
and endless possibilities.
But here, in this dive bar,
time stands still
and I am at home
among the lost and forgotten.

Ed the bartender calls me Foolosopher,
the drunken poet
with a heart full of pain
and a pen that bleeds
all the ugly truths
of this broken world.
And I will keep coming back
to this holy place
where I can drown my sorrows
and find solace
among the broken and beautiful.