Way of life

I walked the long streets with a bottle in my hand,
pretending every swallow was strength
and not surrender.

Family dreams cracked early,
like cheap glass under the weight
of bills, guilt
and women who wanted answers
I didn’t have.
They said they needed support.
I could barely stand myself.

But still 
I gave what I could,
even when it cost blood from a stone.
Even when my pockets echoed
and my heart felt overdrafted.

Alcohol was the only one
that didn’t ask for explanations.
No demands, no expectations —
just a quiet deal
Give me your pain,
and I’ll give you an hour of silence.

My way of life?
Maybe it was never the streets,
the noise, the bars.
Maybe it was simply
surviving myself
one day at a time.

And in the end,
it wasn’t pride I fought for
but the small part of me
that still believed
I could build a life
that didn’t hurt to live.