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Waking up with sweat
stained sheets wrapped
around me and you are
nowhere to be seen as
you believe being mean
is keeping the lads keen.
Your leather jacket is
still here hanging on the
hook by the front door
and he wonders why
she didn’t want more.
He loved her laugh last
night as they drunkenly
tried to walk right home
after finishing a few gin
and tonics between them
that made his head spin
and her think that she
would forever win at sin.
Her long blonde hair
had flown out behind her
and it reminded him of
fresh sunflowers because
that was the colour of her
beauty and he prayed the
rest of the night would not
be another careless blur.
The radiance within her
shone so bright that he
didn’t even turn on the
kitchen light as he let
them both inside as the
liquor made their shyness
want to shrivel up and hide.
But in the next morning,
there was no hungover girl
mumbling sleepily and
yawning because instead
there was only her leather
jacket and the faint smell
of sweet perfume left on
his pillow as he tried to
visualize that beautifully
bright sunny yellow that
made his throat dry and
gave him a sickening urge
to cry because he didn’t
want this feeling to die.
He wondered if she would
call because it really hadn’t
taken him long to fall for her
long limbs and the way she
had dark humour that stung
him like a cheap rumour and
so he slept on the sofa that
day with the aching bones
of a man who lives alone
but with a leather jacket
wrapped around his arm
because he wanted to see
her again and see if she
maybe felt the same but
he knew deep down it
was a Friday night love
and the weekend would
soon fade away because
she was never destined to
stay yet he hung her jacket
in the closet for years to
come and tried again to
find the perfect one but
he’d let her slip between
his fingers yet the smell
of her sweet perfume still
lingered for Friday nights
to come and he missed the
colour of the sun that shone
in her hair and the bright
eyes that that craved fear.
She’d been his Friday night
coffee and cream that would
never return no matter how
much he stroked the seams
of her faded leather jacket.
Sunflower girl was now
gone with the wind and
soon he could no longer
recall her voice and the
paleness of her soft skin.
It was like she had never
met him in the first place
but oh god how he loved
her beautiful hair and knew
she had once been there in
his arms even if it had only
been for one Friday night.
Branden Youngs Dec 2018
Spun dizzy till she fell

Love or *****?

Fumbling for words to tell
What brings you to say my name
 after the sun sets?

Love or *****?

Burning down your neck 

Chased with a cigarette.

Sober or drunk

My name brings cold sweat.


Good luck

You’ll never forget
Jonathan Helling Dec 2018
the only ******
I care for
is your
**** soul-

the quirks,
the pains,
the habits,

the ways
you’d **** yourself
if you
really had the
chance to.

the only ******
I care for
is drinking alone
at four in the morning,

wishing for
something
to take it all
and make it
better;

to
put some
clothes
on it.
William Murray Dec 2018
I met someone... well, not really ‘met’
But I’m talking to a girl that I met on one of those dating apps.
Everyday for the past week we’ve talked
And everyday my heart has smiled.
I think I might like her. I don’t know, it’s been a while.
I’ll probably mess it up anyhow.
I was very very Inebriated when I wrote this. But it’s true, I like this girl, and I’ll probably mess it up.
Jonathan Helling Dec 2018
artists suffer
for their art,
but poets
live in hell;

they rule
the fire
that others
merely
tried
adapting
to.
Jonathan Helling Dec 2018
blowing smoke out of
my window
and talking
to the cats
that roam around
my backyard
all night;

I want to quit
smoking
and I hate
******* cats,
but

this moment

is a tiny piece
of heaven-
stationary,

as the absurd
spins,
and keeps
spinning.
Logan Robertson Dec 2018
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.

Logan Robertson

12/21/2018
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. Edit-I read this poem again and again. I actually like it. I should do this more often, beer in one hand, words in the other. What a fun balance.
Anne Dec 2018
Things feel different when you’re drunk,
Things feel rubber when you’re drunk
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