The young mother weeps as she softly embraced her new baby boy.
  As he grows she taught him to crawl and next to walk, she taught him to talk and to be a big boy.
  She taught him respect and manners and right from wrong.
  Her battle began as he grew a little older she had no choice but to raise him alone.
  Feeling as if she wasn't enough she found herself instead of discipline she protects him at no cost and carried his blame.
  Which led him to believe he had no consequences to face for any of his actions.
  She now blames herself for the choices that he made she begged him not to drink and drive.
  Her warning fell short of reaching him only this time saving him was no option.
  He lost his best friend after a party on their journey home.
  The boys parted ways that night without ever saying goodbye for one went to heaven her  son was sentenced to prison and taken away. As his consequences are much deeper than his sentence, life without ever losing the memory of that horrible night is a sentence no judge can beat.
  For now she weeps for the day that she will feel again her son's soft embrace.
©kimmied1105

The nightcap wears off.
My faded world comes in clear.
Pressed fingers tight to my temple,
help to steady the shipwrecked thoughts.
I see black spots, like blackened pieces of a once finely stitched tapestry.

Unsteady limbs claw at the heavy stench,
tipping then spilling a cup once full.

Behind stormy eyelids, lighting cracks through.
Maddening thoughts spawn, slimming the mind.
Mutant feelings bubble, distilled
ready to bottle.

If this scene had a soundtrack, the chords would howl.
The melodious truth could liquefy our yesterday smiles.
Sudden smacks from the bass come to rustle my withered petals.
Tragedy comes in many pauses.
Reach for your collar, and choke the nonsense.
Don't forget to kick the footstool,
hang the little man, guess the right letter
...it's a vowel.

The smog of the gin, has long passed.
What is left, a hammering build.

The cup once full was my solace.
Solace smells a lot like *****.
From the bottom, I smile upward
To the new day, I flip the *******
and linger back to black.

She took another sip of her fine feathered drink
I don't think this is a learned behavior
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree
Blank stares following her body sways
Making mountains out of molehills
I take an attempt to persuade her to address the issue
Only leaves a temporary result to get us off her back
The weight on her back transfers to mine
All eyes on me to intervene again
Though my shell is hard, my inside is not

Why hello
It's been a while since I've had visitor
Come, have a seat
I know the place isn't most hospitable, but it's all I've got
Please help yourself to a drink
Here

You look confused
Have I really been that out of touch?
I spent ages brewing this
I couldn't offer it to my past visitors
They insisted to leave
Said the place they were headed was much better than this dreary place

Not much of a talker I see
Well, that's alright
A merry old man longs company
Even the silent ones
Here, a toast


To you and me

I'll I have a sip too
So don't worry
I promise it won't **** you

See? Warms you right up, doesn't it?
Now, we have much time in our hands so let's

How can I tell time?
Well,
I suppose I just can
Time doesn't exist to me here.
Where is here, you ask?
Most people call here the middle of nowhere
But I promise it's
A far warmer place than where you came from

You wish to leave, yes?
You were gazing so prettily outside
Of course I know the way
Just follow the stone road back
Through the thickets
Pass the green log
And you're right back in town

But before you leave,
Come, spend the night here
I know it's a long way back, especially since the light's fading
Please, have another drink and rest
I'll see to it you have a safe trip back
But for now, stay
Here

Some day
It'll all be over
No more people
No more thoughts
No more feelings
Here's hoping
That it'll be soon

I'll drink to that

I’m relieved that you’re not here.
Though I’ve never seen you here before,
I sort of expect you to be,
Because the memory of you follows me wherever I go.
Slipping noiselessly through the door
Into the din of the bar,
With a perpetual cloud of smoke clinging to you,
Highlighting your phantom affect.
I don’t think I could handle it,
Seeing you here.
Visions of you already plague me
Without seeing you
In person,
Sitting before me
Balancing on the back two legs of your chair,
Heavy leather boots crossed at the ankles,
Rocking on your long, lean, jean-clad legs.
I don’t think I could handle it,
Hearing you order your Jameson,
Double,
Neat.
One hand in the pocket of your long black coat that grazes the floor when you sit,
The other wrapped around your glass,
Jameson,
Double,
Neat.
And although the smell suffocates me,
Sometimes I sit out on the smoker’s deck and breathe in the smell of burning tobacco,
And if I’m particularly desperate to feel your presence without succumbing to the need to call,
I order it.
Jameson.
Double.
Neat.
But see,
I can’t actually call you and ask you to come,
Because you will.
And if you ghost through the threshold with your paint-stained hands casually shoved in your pockets,
And give me that gut-wrenching,
Heart-stopping grin,
I’ll die.
Because death is the only way to avoid my incessant need to be near you.
Even now,
Knowing that your insides are just as coal-black as your eyes,
I yearn for the feel of your broad shoulders flexing and rolling beneath my fingertips, my hands running over the expanse of your chest,
Seeking entrance beneath your shirt
As if I can feel the tattoos that lie beneath.
The neck,
The jaw,
The parted lips,
Everything I’ve kissed and caressed a thousand times,
I know I would do the same a thousand more,
If I got the chance.
So thank God that you’re not here.
Because if I caught one glimpse of your irresistible, impossibly soft, dark locks
Falling over your severe, furrowed brow,
Mussed by the wind
And from your fingers running through it over and over,
To the envy of my own,
I would burst at the seams,
God,
It’s a good thing you’re not here.

I plead with my bottle, never empty
The glass neck has a lush feel
I strangle it like a lover
victim still in hand, bleeding to my pleasure
the fill,
the thrill