It's sort of funny in the saddest way. To find pieces of myself in a man that was never really a part of my life at all. I wish I knew you well enough to have memories other than playing trivia at a table by the bar watching you stay well past last call. Fighting with your wife over who would drive home. Spending every other weekend you had with me staring at the bottom of empty bottles. And slurring "I love you's" like I might believe them. Isn't it all I ever wanted? To be loved by you? And does anything ever really change? Can people really change? You were sober for 5 years after you almost lost your life. But now I keep waking up to drunk text messages. Parallel to your drunken confessions in the middle of the night while six year old me tried to comfort you. Biting my tongue and staring at the cieling fan so I wouldn't cry. I don't have to hide the tears anymore because you're in another city and I won't ever tell you how bad you hurt me. But Dad I keep letting men hurt me who tell me they love me at 2 am and I wish I didn't feel like it's because of you.
Ford has a new tag line That bothers me way more than it should They say, “We don’t just raise the bar, we are the bar.” But to raise the bar is to go over it So why would being the bar be any better? They set the standard for people to go over? Did they not put any thought into it? Have I not put enough thought into it? Am I putting too much thought into it? Ford hasn’t just put me in a k-hole, I am a k-hole
you were on your break when i walked into the bar scrolling on your phone to fill the void of boredom; i presume. didn't figure out your name by the time i left does it even matter?
what does matter is what i noticed about you in that short amount of time: a cold aura that surrounded you a neatly trimmed beard to hide your acne scars and a shy, yet assertive look that you shot my way a couple times it was nice seeing you till next time
the bartender was cute, and his stoic demeanor made him so much more enchanting
It's a Thursday evening and over par for the course I'm sitting in a sandtrap. The lie is bad, I'm buried next to a watering hole in the wall. I can't get out. The half truth is I'm a drunk a sea of sorrows. Even the dolphins, I shed no mercy. The real truth is I'm *** anchored to a barstool, barnacles from the dead sea hanging on the four legs. If this bar stool ever came to life the voice would bubble to the surface, get me to dry dock. How fortuitous the wind in my sails, finding every sandtrap and waving at the mothballs. Blind to letting the barnacles take it's course. Corrosion creeping up on me, like its relative. Who cares about the long lost voice or the red ants at his picnic. Or if Uncle lost his strokes he never had. Did someone say shipwreck? I order another double, with fire in my eyes, adding another burn to my stomach. I look at the bartenderess and my eyes don't lie. She's my type. My head tilts this way and that. I see people starring back at me. If only they knew how the ball bounces.
It was a Thursday night at the bar. I sat in my own little world. Laptop in front of me. Chips on the side. A poem that was begging to be written. So I began to type, fast, without any inhibition or cares.