Alchohol taste right
When your heart is suffering.
It’s like dabbing it directly to the wound
And would sting like hell.

I assume that the more I consume
The happier I get.

It’s like a bizzare love triangle
Between me, reality and alchohol.
Pulling me in.
Until my world becomes blurry.

There’s no escape.
Nor I wanted to leave.
It was a dream
Where the whole world is happy.

A temporary bliss.
From the struggling reality
I don’t want to face

And here we are again
after all these years
sitting on the same couch
it feels so good to be here right now
with you
drinking alchohol until we forget who we are
and how much time we've wasted
acting foolish and ignoring eachother
we're talking about the same ****
we did 2 years ago
and still i love listening to the same story
over and over again
even when the music is loud
and  i can't hear you
oh baby i've missed you so much
don't leave me again

i wish i can flow out my emotions
and have a taste of it
maybe with a bourbon glass
anything, without complications

just to see if it hints bitterness
a glint of sadness
see if it dances with joy
i hope not for sorrow

mundane aims blandness
and i dont know anymore
seems like i cant feel anything
are they bottled like Jim Beam?

Voracity is the centipede,
hunting in a-downhill-bleed,
pull what you think is a string,
to pitch your tent,
feel the centi clench,
and incision of dopamine,
your esophagus that screams,
could have had the segments and seams,
harking back to when the earth was steam,
when night jungle shines upon it,
with a red lens,
as it devours a tarantula,
adding a segment to its length,
sense the kinship,
sense the progenitor strength,
turn your red light on,
see the red esophagus of black chiton,
run for the zenith,
before the apex makes you bleedeth,
let your bayonet it bite on,
drop in alchohol,
and as a dragon,
it will soar and fight on,

beware the apex,
only the mountain,
set your sights on,
beware the early esophagus,
of red-neon, black chiton.

now we're in the backseat,
and my stomachs turning.
maybe i just want people in my life
in an un-romantic way.
i like to get under their skin,
and steal their souls story.
i love how everyone is different,
and i can't hate a single thing,
because it makes them human;
the girls who steal bikes at midnight,
and the guys who offer their apartment
out at night.
i find myself in the wrong crowd,
i find myself in these situations,
in the backseat,
with someone who's speaks a
language far from consent
and it's all desperation.
his hands on my neck,
and there's no attraction,
physically.
mentally he has a way of making
my head spin faster than the
alchohol,
and i'm not sure if i'm
kissing him sober,
or if the night itself is drunk,
and i'm waiting for the sun to shine
a light on my mistakes,
as it always does.
i take their stories, they take mine,
but i'm not sure what part of it's true.
the girl in the backseat,
the girl shaking,
the rigid lips and bites.
maybe we won't speak,
maybe he'll lecture me again,
for using my body as a token
to pay my way.
love is an expensive thing.

His words crash around us, his miserable dark dampening everyone’s light. Your blue eyes roll high, then low, letting his hanger catch on your shoulders. I protest, claim love and want hope, but he’s well prepared; bible, violence, and stereotype in hand.
  At first, he locked his anger up tight, disguised the resentment, fought the archaic nature of his values, the great expanse of his hatred, hidden. He kept it in, fought it, failed to understand it. Finally, internal battle lost, he started leaking. Any hope for happiness killed by a diet of frozen pizza, polish sausage, and spaghetti westerns. He respects men who don’t respect women, loathes anyone who dares to think or feel more than necessary.
His eyes shift, and a creeping moustache has begun above his upper lip, framing a mouth spewing misunderstanding. You say: He makes everyone miserable. He says: Its all the cigarettes and alchohol they’ve been using. You shake your head, knowing an argument only spreads the contagion and inflames the rash.
   I forget, ask him how he knows so much about things he’s never done.  “You don’t have to try it to know,” He replies, the creeping moustache more and more evident. I roll my eyes, lay back and listen as he preaches theories  about women he’s never known, never had. How many times can he fail to realize he’s no better than anyone else. He preaches God and Christianity, but hates more than anyone, has no hope, or faith, or love, and lacks any shadow of compassion. He’s filled with violence and anger, yet claims to follow a God of love.

   He’s not tough, or hardened, or experienced, he’s afraid. Afraid to love, to lose, to understand, to hope, to accept, because it means a change.  It means growing up, throwing out comic books, drawing mor than Batman, finding friends who are real, feeling the pain, understanding the gravity, and embracing it all.

Maybe this doesn't matter at all
Especially because the way I may have treated you,
and maybe you'll never even see this,
but if you do,
I think that you should know some things.
I beat myself up a lot.
Fully responsible for the pain that you endured.
I think about you
outside
in the rain
in the gutter.
I notice you. Constantly.
In the back of my mind.
Something completely beautiful.
There's something gorgeous about the way the rain hides your tears.
About the way you look with wet hair.
I constantly want to go outside
and bring you in
and make you soup
and cocoa
and tea.
I want to help you get undressed
and dry you off,
changing into something,
soft and warm.
Safe.
I'll wrap you in a towel
and wrap you in my arms.
Tracing your figure gently,
like the road going home.
We'll construct a blanket fort.
And it'll be our secret castle.
Away from the world.
I see you shrinking.
I know that you are.
But maybe we could shrink down together
and make our fort an entire estate;
where I can make a memory with you
in each achre.
And when it gets cold,
we can scrimp and save,
and rent a dollhouse
for our summer home.
You wont have to worry
about other people seeing you sweat.
We'll close the blinds and draw the curtains
and stay naked-
vulnerable.
A place of our own creation.
You and me.
I think about the things we shared.
The late nights.
The secrets.
I always wonder how you are.
I long for you.
I crave your words like I crave
the nicotine, or the alchohol, or the abuse
that I need in order to
keep my thoughts off of you.
Sometimes I still think about it
because I'm crazy
and unfair-
jumping on a plane, I mean-
to expect you to be waiting for me on the other side.
I think about you all the time. Whether you believe me or not.
Or whatever you choose.
I dwell on you. I haven't stopped.
Like a near death experience.
The only thing that's ever really made me feel alive.
Completely whole.
******* I think about  you all the time.
Forbidden fruit. Something I shouldn't be reaching out for.
I want to dress your wounds.
Take care of you when you fall.
Douse you in antiseptic
wrap your bandages
and seal each cut with a kiss.
I haven't stopped thinking about you at all.
There is something about the way your heart makes my heart flutter.
And the way your soul speaks beautiful perfect poetry to mine.
I'd also be a liar if I said I didn't think about staring into your eyes, or the way you smell like lilacs and honey, or the peaches and cream of your skin.
My favorite dessert.
Something that I indulge in.
I want to taste you.
Every last drop.
Warm saltwater
lemon juice,
birthday cake
life giving nectar.
I've held my lips against a rose petal,
unconsciously,
wishing it were you.
Dying for the real thing.
I miss your voice. A sweet song.
Deep lulliby.
The most humbling thing I've ever heard.
Thunder
the roar of the ocean
harsh winds
butterfly wings
bubbling brooks
gentle rains.
Perfection.
I long for you with my whole being,
and whether it means anything to you or not,
I still thought that you should know.

I think there's something
always something
to be gained
by nothing
some shy away from the pitch blackness that surrounds them
lonely nights locked away in an iron cage of comforters
not a light on in the room
it really doesn't matter if they kept their eyes open or not
they all see the same thing
the darkness changes, that it does
some see the fears that plague them
some lovers of the past
some see the darkness looking back at them
seeing a sad little boy hiding under the covers
silently screaming away into the night
that he wants to be a little kid again
that he doesn't want to leave his friends behind
even though everyone knows he means the opposite
he doesn't want to go and hide under the corporate blanket
becuase it's all the same world, just different ages, different people
but we are all trying to hide under that blanket in the night
because we know that we don't want to see
whats inside that pit around us
the dreams
of what could have been

Being Drunk
Being intoxicated
A new perspective
A new understanding
You see things so differently
So profoundly
When you see the light
A new perspective arises
I see the loneliness in mysterious eyes
A lover of her purpose
To expose those to a better understanding
An amazing joyousness
I have become the pupil of alchohol
A completely different knowledge
The vibrance of all things,
The voice of each person,
A song in my left eardrum
Thoughts of others
Such an understatement of my experience
Swallow the art
Consume the knowledge
Let it pass deep into your soul
Continue to be who you are,
Complete your words,
But to understand?
A gift rapped in time.
This art taken as a substance
Where you speak,
You hear your thoughts
Insane you may call me
But I call it,
Me my thoughts,
Beautiful.
My thoughts secluded like all others
So as im told with his song he shares
Unmonotone letting me feel his thoughts
Held by my mind,
A gift.
The philosopher.