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In the night I am joined.
A drink summons a row of faces,
unrecognizable they come to me as penumbras.
A swirl of half crescent grins and grimaces cry out in pain.
I am ****** into a hole of submission,
here are all the allegorical creations living inside of me.
These things stand tall, bare and judging.
Laughing and watching as I fall into a bottomless grip called “inevitability".
Breathing raw, dank ideologies.
Manifesting nasty, stubborn idiosyncrasies.  
I am freed by another drink
And the pleasant reality
that sometimes moving on
means laughter.
Jade Sep 2018
V. Ethereal

Maybe being drunk
is the closest I will
ever get to zero gravity--
to walking on the moon.

My fingers curled
around the neck of a liquor bottle,  
I wander to my bedroom window,
as a tipsy weightlessness settles
amongst my limbs
(and my thoughts).

Swaying slightly,
I part the curtains and,
in my intoxicated stupor,
search for Polaris in the night sky,
point to it,
press a clumsy hand to the glass,
convince myself that
I have captured the star,
and all the omniscient power
it possesses,
beneath my finger tips.

Star light,

{lips pant--

star bright,

{my breath appears a catalyst
as the window pane glazes over
in an impenetrable paroxysm of fog}

first star I see tonight,

{I take a swig,
raise the bottle--
a toast
to the cosmos}

I wish I may,

{Lashes meet in
silent matrimony}

I wish I might,

{Behind closed, desperate eyes,
ribbons of colour dance
towards me in a disoriented jig}

have this wish I wish tonight--

to be
obliterated by the very galaxy
that birthed
these grieving bones
and this tumultuous heart.

Because only then--
as the Gods paint the Night
with the innards of my soul,
acrylic purples
churning against the blackness--
will I become what I
have always dreamed
of becoming:


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astro eyes Oct 2017
An innocent born into darkness,
A life unknown to be so graceless.
A world without colour,
This life like no other.

Below the depths of this flesh,
A girl lives craving new breath.
Stolen was her beating heart,
Given to loneliness, consumed as a withered spark.

The biggest dreams swim in her mind,
The longest amount of time goes by.
A slave to abuse, a slave to misery.
Will she escape from the chains to find victory?

Fortitude is what she seeks,
Peace and love is what she needs.
A life ready to begin and restart,
Her life ready to fight her way through the dark.

A journey has started, her journey awaits.
An adventure she'll recall,
has her saving grace.

“Arise” she screams,
“Arise and be...”
“Arise and be all that you dreamed!”
This is the first piece I am publishing. It's quite daunting to put my work out into the world. I have never before done so.
I hope this poem speaks to you in some way.
Conor Martin Dec 2016
Empty Bottles align in the light, Reflect the shattered soul, Broken down to the last drop ****** the cork like the wolf harvests bone, The devil within busts through the held open door, Societies vessel of acceptance, ignorance in a swig and a sip ****** up the wall, I Doubt it’s worth the loss of yourself after all.

Dignity as fragile as the brown paper bag, Held around the chalice of your disgusted pride, Bottle after Bottle are you even allowed to call yourself alive, Hooked to the bottom of the glass, Any excuse even if the next ones your so-called last.

Friends and fortune faded, The bottles figure jaded in the light of your dim-witted realise, Nothing else to do but sit back and enjoy the ride

The Reaper sits across the bar, Sickle in hand pouring bottle after bottle never drifting very far, No strings to pull as the tender waits, Bottle like a shotgun, the mixer shakes, the distilled Deity waiting to deliver the last call.

Before the turn, No Misery or Shame, In the end, Is it really the bottle or the man who’s to blame.
The sorrows are drowning with every last gulp
Afternoon dies quickly and the night is born
The guilt lies in every selfish glass
then suddenly, her purse perishes.
The moon, so alone. Robbed of all his dignity.
No one passes his way apart from
an unaware, ungrateful cloud.
Gone, vanishing from this cruel universe
The moon, still alone
wanted to fall from the sky
And then she returned home.
A star
Not living up to her name.
I wrote this poem when in 2010 when I was 16 and having some issues at home. I'll never disclose who the poem is about but it is about someone who had an alcohol problem, someone close to me.
Duke Thompson Dec 2015
Getting sentimental from drink

Limp along like another

Angry little misanthrope

Don't people get tired of themselves

Like I get tired of me?

Blah blah blah

Looking for a breath of fresh air

When everything and everywhere

Is stale
Rachel Sep 2015
It takes a special breed of fool
to touch a hot pan twice,
well I've grabbed it about four times now,
it's just another sorely vice.

I'm playing a game with penance
and pain;  a the reckless thing I do.
So add it to my
and coming back to you.
Nicholas Kurtz Sep 2015
..And I probably shouldn't
have used my real name

But that's the fool inside of me

I walk home at three in the morning
In a white fedora, black suit, and winged tipped shoes with a pointed toe

Accompanied by a lone trumpet
Shrieking a wailing lonesome tune
As I walk slyly, cigarette in hand
In a strange off beat step
Through dark alleys, side streets,
And ***** parks

I give a *** a fifty dollar bill

And wait,
Stop there!
A scumbag is assaulting a woman
And I of course save the day

I come to, crawling to my toilet
A horrifying sting of mace

I dreadfully check my messages

And in ***** covered disgrace..
I despise,

My big dumb tequila poisoned face

— The End —