Brown bottles filled with hops It seems to be the only physical evidence left Eleven sit on my bedside table Ten you finished, one I couldn't, and one unopened The smell of you is gone from my clothes Gone from the blanket I hope kept you warm I still feel your hand on my thigh Your deep laugh vibrating against my chest Your hair between my fingers For now the only thing I can hold between my hands Is a beer bottle gone stale But every time I look down at my cold hands I remember how warm they felt holding you
I'm sipping of my dream of you. Remembering how deeply we looked into each other's souls. I felt your heart inside of mine, When we were first together that October night.
I had merlot, and you the king of beers; if we had an audience, they would all stand and cheer. The heat between us was pure magic, the elements of the universe sang our love song. How ***** of you, to slip me your tongue.
My imagination took over me, and my dream of you came abundantly…clear. That I would see you again, in another year.
Back in my bone crushing poverty ridden days, I collected cans for nickels; enough cans meant ***** and smokes for the day. one morning I came across an empty can of beer, it said, Dead Irish Poet Beer. i thought, how odd is this? Just then, a car blew by blaring a Van Morrison song. I thought, ah yes, but he's alive. I didn't take the can for the nickel. I left it to its green garbage can grave.
Writing a poem for the sake of writing a poem. I’m feeling emotions. More than ten. Emotions that numb the toughest of men. Even after all these exercises on Zen It still feels like I’m falling apart at the hem.
But it’s all good! Isn’t it? I’m here. Living through it with fear Just ordered a double gin and some beer But the mere feeling evokes a tear and leaves me kneeling at the gateway of those emotions. Dripping all over me like hot lotion Without commitment or devotion. And everything feels like it's slow motion.
So apparently it’s normal. To feel things. They say all the stings and the pings are worth it because we’re not supposed to be perfect, and ‘these feelings need to be nurtured’. *******. It’s all a bit perverted like a lie that's murmured. This ******* feeling is so determined that I can't win. If I do, I'll be singed and pinned Even though I haven't actually sinned. Yet I'm the one writing this poem. Not her.
Where the **** is that beer? So I wrote this. This poem. Here.
I go to order a drink to help me forget As I look at the menu one catches my eye and all I can remember is what you were wearing when we first met Samuel Adams printed across your chest and now you're all I can remember when I'm trying so hard to forget.
My twin flame I will stop chasing if you stop running. It doesn't taste the same since you left.