Surrounded by empty parts of a forgotten past
Chasing myself around to end up in the same place as last
I spiral all night on a bed beaten by time and mistakes
Just to sleep in segments of new horror in a different time of space

Helplessly in love with the possibility that you may impossibly have what I'm looking for

Hounded by remedy crooks with cold coffee and platitudes

Abandoned by the church of the broken, to fall back into poisonous loving arms

Now I'm talking to the walls and crying with the windows
Spinning with the ceiling and alone in our bedroom
Remembering the promises made in a 101 proof haze
Living on borrowed time remembering yesterdays

Given in
No more
False

To think
I'm redeemed
A fault

Forgivness is
Laced unto
Selfish pity

The morning light shines through the blinds
My eyes squint shut trying to stop the pain.
Head pounding, throbbing, sharp pins and needles
Memory gone, complete darkness.
What happened last night?
I don't dare ask my friends for fear of what they might bring to light.
I remember the sips of tequila on my tongue,
I can still taste it.
Dancing all night long,
Then it's all black.
I cannot remember when I left the bar,
Or how I got home.
What I did in those few hours,
I cannot remember.
I look in the bathroom mirror and see a cut on my forehead.
How did that get there?
Sure, I had a long, painful relationship with alcohol in the past.
I was a lightweight learning her limits,
And some of my worst memories involved alcohol consumption.
I used alcohol as a coping mechanism but it only made my problems worse.
No matter how hard I tried,
I still could not figure out how I injured myself.
Tears rush down my face in frustration.
Drinking was no longer fun.
I was no longer proud of who I was.
The tequila taste in my mouth making me gag in disgust,
Disgust with myself.
No longer would I let alcohol continue to destroy my life.
Sobriety is hard but my memory and wellbeing is more important than being intoxicated.

~ sdr

We all have a fix
Whether it’s alcohol, drugs, or a person.
I wonder why they are called “fixes”
They never fix what they are meant to.
It’s all just a distraction from the pain being felt.

~ sdr

Looking at a life through the shattered wine glass
One of my earliest memories of you,
Understanding with no words or thoughts that you were going to die one day
And yet I still wasn't ready.

You drank to still your thoughts
And finally, they are still.

I'm a "vlogger" poet,
or a poet who "vlogs"
through words.
Filling your Home pages
with my own latest news,
brand new discoveries:
I'm an alcoholic
and probably bipolar too.

The past two days were recklessly engorged with alcohol.
Intoxication has become habitual. Each weekend, drowning one's self in an illusion of joy and folly; The jester entertaining not Kings nor Queens, but the ****, the weak, to deceive the empty crowd in my mind that I matter to someone. But matter is fleeting and we, myself and the abyss, understand the plight of today; waking up to nothing-- the empty abyss for which I am well acquainted with. Simply put, I am revisiting my old home from a not so distant past. The only difference between then and now is the relentless bottoms of empty glasses and a false sense of security and composure.

i see myself -
unshaven and distraught, at peace with who i am and despaired by a world i saw coming but couldn't prepare for.
i see myself -
sitting in the old house, civil war ghosts whispering through the cracks in the dry red clay. sherman burned this town once and now i get to watch the sun do it again.
i see myself -
the hedges are overgrown and i never stopped smoking cigarettes. the shadows on the walls are mapped out, a mimicry of life in an empty heirloom.
i see myself -
head in my hands thinking about history. The Last Gilded Age. The Second Gilded Age. what good are comparisons if no one's left to draw them? how does the past make room in a world already strangled by its present?
i choke back -
the same addiction that made geraldine shoot herself. it occurs to me that i am probably the last person alive to remember geraldine ever existed. i think that's what drew me to history - i've always had the past living inside me. there's a whole family tree intertwined with my ribcage, like kudzu over tarred lungs.
i fill my -
flask with weedkiller. i inherit an open wound. i try to find my place in a history that no one will ever read.