I love how absolutely untranquil this poem is. Surrender, apathy, atrophy, yes. But nothing is at peace here.  It's a great peace of contrast and meaning you set up immediately with the title.



I understand that people may think both, and I meant for it to be that way, just like how mundane routines can be repetitive and sometimes disorientates the mind.

I enjoy how you get at cycles. The sunrise, the cigarettes, the jazz, the "here we go again". An effective little poem. I'm curious if you meant to imply with the first line that you have been up all night, because that's how it reads to me. Or maybe you just woke up and there is only one glass left now. Just something to think about. Thanks for sharing!

Yes it was done on purpose to reflect the feeling of fatigue

Your meter is a little off and it makes it a little awkward to read. Did you do this on purpose? 

I love your idea of solace in a bad habit. I find tobacco is a great subject for writing because of this. It reminds me of something I read in regards to our own will. The idea is that upon seeing a glass house, we are compelled to destroy it by throwing rocks at it. By destroying something beautiful for no reason we prove to ourselves that we have agency over our own lives. We can make bad decisions to prove that we are in control of ourselves. 

This tranquility is awfully familiar, which is a great thing. You've written so in which someone can pick it up and read it and understand all of this, the thought process, this "another day," mood. It is mundane, it is beautiful. The imagery gives a sense of the wanting for more.

I love the internal rhyme scheme in it. It doesn't seem forced which is very hard to do with rhymes schemes and you do that well with both of the ones you have in your work. 

I love it. To me it tells the story of a man suffering a lonely mundane existence. He knows he is alive, but also knows that he's not living. Great Poem.

The Sun is up, I’m on my last glass of whisky.

It’s a new day, yup, another cycle awaits me.

Daylight’s getting longer, the temperature’s on the rise.

Inhale, exhale, I ponder, and soon resilience dies.


 
Solace is in a bad habit, at least five times a day.

Twenty in a packet, won’t quit till my hair turns grey.

I’m here alive and kicking, I think, in retrospect.

To live without feeling, to live is imperfect.


 
Eyelids are getting heavy, lean back against a chair.

Fatigue is creeping on me, there’s jazz tunes in the air.

Sigh, as you lament, oh life is so mundane..

Try, and circumvent, oh here we go again.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4qi4m6/the_bitterness_of_nostalgia/
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4qjhtd/between_you_and_me/

Tranquil