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Serenity Elliot Sep 2014
We've reached that point
Where we depend on alchohol
To have a good time
It's just a given thing
I'm not complaining
But is it that any different
To a drug?
Julia O'Neary Sep 2014
Girls wear stiletto's
so that they are that
much further from
the ***** soaked floor.
hands on hips
and lips
sips from
scarlet letter stained straws.

Men don't know where to
put their hands.
On hips
and lips
dips tastes
forbidden fruit
off her trees please.

People in the blender
ice breaking, mixer shaking
As close as we can get
but lonely like debris
in the storm
room  spinning
ears ringing
no one winning,
everyone sinning
and no one
This sounds very different from how I usually write and I think this could be the start of a longer poem or maybe a series. I'd love some feed back on this one.
josh wilbanks Sep 2014
I drink away the pain because I can no longer cut it out but give me a chance and I will carve your name.
I think about the day because I no longer remember the nights but give me a chance and I will forget the days too.
I smile when I remember our memories because they have always been my favorites but give me the chance and I will forget them all.

Let me stop drinking.
alex kennedy Aug 2014
We worry about why we exist but our only purpose
is to fall in love with a masterpiece created by a god
so lonely he had to invent an audience.

So if every one of us is one and we are all god
maybe that's why I don't see shooting stars,
but I look up and fall in love with
every wish I will never make.

Maybe when we drink wine we lose a sense of self.
Because we are not humans,
but we are something much bigger.

Maybe that's why when we drink we get hiccups.
Because hiccups attempt to shock the mind back to consciousness.
Thinking is a drug and drugs are just spiritual defibrillators.
This is not done at all it is absolutely a draft but I haven't posted in so long.
Julia O'Neary May 2014
Last night at a party I had five shots
And five revelations along with them
Thank you, tiny sweet shot glass for
Burning away inhibitions.
Burning hot,  liquescent cinnamon
Goes straight to my knees and my phone
As I sat on the kitchen counter, texting,
And I had some things to say that
         I never dared to before.
One: Like how when I thought that
you wanted me, I was an apparition
that had been trying to break the veil
between two worlds, to no avail
and you with your kind eyes
          resurrected me.  
Two: That I’ve never been noticed by a
good man. Nor have I noticed any.
You were sugar and spice, but
telling someone that you miss
them and then never fulfilling
the sweet promise of someday,
         isn’t very nice at all.
Three: The first time you told me I was beautiful
I couldn’t believe you. Because I always believed
that complements were gifts men gave
to women to remind us that we are only our
bodies. And as a girl who is most comfortable
when she retreats deep within the recesses
of her imagination I find this troubling.
Besides what good is beauty when it only
          serves to make sweeter my fire.
Four: the second and third and fourth time you
called me beautiful I believe you meant it .
Because you offered up those treats without
demanding payment and I thought that’s what
respect was, what longing was. And it felt good to
be wanted for more than my body but still...
I felt the heavier meaning your words
And your eyes spoke in sonnets
And the more you said it the more I needed
to hear it.I had never needed to hear it before you.
But your insistence that I am beautiful
made me want you and for the first time
               I let myself want.
Five: I hate that if you called me right now
I would go to you, in a heartbeat.
I hate that you inspire poetry so cliche.
That everything I  feel about you
is as the Sun rises each day:
Spectacular yet under appreciated.
I hate that I make excuses for you.
That I understand how you could
forget about me, change your mind
about me. I hate that I don’t think
you did anything wrong. I hate that I
should hate you but I can’t press send
because I’m still hoping that you will
come back to me, like how
the Sun longs to share the sky
                      with the Moon
I took your words like a shot of whiskey,
nervous at first and then all at once.
They tasted like heaven, and burned like hell,
a confusion of syrupy sweet nothings (nothing
because that's all we ever were) and the sting
of your silence when you left town. When I
first saw you I wrote a poem about how
I didn't know your name and I  was not brave
enough to ask. I knew you were going to be
important but I didn’t know then that
       the afterthought of you would
                                burn so much.

— The End —