Highball

every night
thousands of young men
sit in their dingy apartments
drinking highballs
those same young men
lets call them "loners"
have their own special chair
they go for it on typewriters, laptops
old dirty desktop computers
with keys missing on their keyboards
they wallow in self loathing, despair, pity
and miserable anguish
which is all pointless
and only prolongs their alone time
it feels rewarding for them, to suffer a bit,
to sweat and toil for nothing
only so they have something to put down
on paper
they drink late into the night, approaching morning hours
with great apprehension
and as the cloud of dust settles over
their drunken bodies passed out on floor mattresses
they awake to the first baking sun beam flowing
through their windows frying and scrambling
their misery
clawing relentlessly at their hearts
feeling worthless and alone
they punch in and punch out
only to follow their same routine
hoping that someone will come save them.
that something in that outside world will notice them
and shatter their walls in hopes of a savior
hey
guys
guess what?
it's the same out here
so what are we all crying for?