I really don't know what to call this

School taught me to drink more than is good for me.
But so lovely was my loneliness I must confess.
Like a comforting wave of poison,
self-inflicted and oddly instinctive.
Destruction is part of my construction.
Or so it would seem.

Idle care for my own welfare.
As I have no time for such things.
We'll see when death comes and what it brings.
And when it comes
My wanton spirit will not hear it when death speaks.
Shrieks and screams and cries will be as the winds floating by.
Never seen and rarely heard on it own.
Death will then leave alone.


Like a lite match thrown into gas.
My spirit was ablaze
Though but for a moment.
It was beautiful and and I enjoyed it.
Now a smoldering pile of ash.
The beauty is gone and it's never coming back.