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Cherish Dec 2019
I’m not a alcoholic
I don’t like the taste of alcohol

But I’ll start drinking, just to get you off my mind.
VSOP
Huxley Web Dec 2019
I'm drunk and I'm high
Sitting on the couch after everyone has left
All but the three of us remain

One by one we fall asleep
Until its just you and I

I can't help the fact
That my head is getting heavy
And you shoulder
Looks so inviting to lean against.
Grey Dec 2019
I am high on life,
drowning in euphoria,
and drunk on loving.
Steve Page Dec 2019
Pub poetry is a form of performance poetry consisting of the shouted word which has developed in UK urban pubs, dating back to the 1940s and 50s. Words are typically yelled over ambient haphazard rhythms which are not especially chosen for the piece of poetry, rather the poetry is performed over the generic sound of empty bottles and part filled glasses and live samples of patron conversation that will be familiar to those frequenting hostelries around the UK.

Sometimes the audience will employ call and response devices to distract the poet, such as calls of "W##k-er!', with the traditional response of "F##k-You!" before the pub poet continues with his yelled out verse, often read from the beer stained back of an overdue envelope.

The pub poet usually appears on a chair or table, surrounded by immediate family or work mates cheering him on.

Invariably inebriated, the pub poet may not appear to make any sense to the uninitiated - but once you too have availed yourself of your 4th or 5th pint, the words become clearer and easier to appreciate.

No musicality is built into pub poems and pub poets generally perform without backing music, delivering chanted speech with pronounced modulation, broken-rhythmic accentuation and dramatic, though random, stylization of gestures, often resulting in the pub poet losing balance and sustaining a head injury thereby losing consciousness and bringing the evening's entertainment to a premature, but often welcome, end.

It is often noted that many pub poets are remarkably shy and retiring when sober.
Based on 'dub poet' wiki entry.  I simply took another look through a different lens.
Jarred Karsten Dec 2019
I don't deserve all
the love I've been given
But I love you all
Marri Dec 2019
You clog my lungs.
You make me stutter and choke.
You make me dizzy.

Still I bring you to my lips--
Again,
Again, and again.

You make me gasp.
You make me break form.
You make me laugh.

Still I inhale your sweet death--
Again,
Again, and again.

You dizzy me.
You intoxicate me.
You poison me.

Still I drink your sweet praise.

A silly thing like me shouldn't smoke,
But you are just so irresistible.

A fickle thing like me shouldn't drink,
But you are just so alluring.

A stupid thing like me shouldn't love,
But you are just so perfect.

So here I am:
Drunk, high, and stupidly in love with you.
emru Nov 2019
drunk with doubts
self inflicted wounds
just you can heal them
sol Nov 2019
the sun sets at
four pm today &
here i am again.
reading poetry with
a stolen cup of
wine from my
mom’s cooler in the fridge.
as my cat sits next to me
coaxing me back from
a depressive ledge
for half an hour
as i read & watch
people richer than me
go shopping on the
television.

you kept me company for
a day & a half
and yet
it’s less than 24 hours
later and i want to jump
again.
i can’t tell you my last
words because then
you’ll try to stop me &
i can’t live with that.
i haven’t been able to.
and if i don’t call in-
don’t call back about
that job application
i always let
everybody down.

i wish i had the sleeping pills now
because this liquid courage might
let
me
drown
you said if i died you’d never delete my number and try to text me all the time but that’s just one stage of grief. i’ll be at peace if you forget about me
Mandi Wolfe Nov 2019
I sit watching brown eyes
probe affectionately through the haze
at the mirrors created by close family.
I think the intimacy that is made possible
by the sharing of wine, **** and space
in a dim room full of sad love and smoke
will never ceased to amaze me.
The men see themselves in each other
and are both heartened in their own ways
I am drunk now in my way
and The Mirror is ****** in his
and Brown (Green) Eyes is both at once
Appalachian mouths move in turns
to take a hit or a drink or a shot at wisdom
Suddenly the truth of our three souls is laid bare
on the tiny table there between us.
My heart tightens around the words
as they echo through each chamber
growing louder with each reverberation.
“Happiness is being able to breathe”

Love you, Frank.
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