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Dave Robertson Dec 2021
What’s in your glass, huh?

What’s your poison
with the noise and the noise
in and out of the head?

What swirls, has legs
and kicks like a mule?

Fool juice, nana called it,

but **** me
I could use some fooling
Raven Feels Apr 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, the burdens that we hold are for our backs to curve years of wisdom---to reach peace:}

hard for me to express

the things you left in me are in mess

the buildings so high scared to my *******

believed things come now to their bests

acceptance of the unknown faces that bloom on the yellow stairs

moments I found it a burden to bare

then you another ranger in those brown tiles

made me drink that blue liquor made me smile

laughter in the wooden walls I will uncover soon

even when the visits brought a past gloom

searching is something I was meant to do on those borders

never will I know or remember unless I read the folders

feel the flies in the green lands

a tingle plastered on the hands

but nothing more than that stance you ******

put a lot of grace because of a simple caring lace

is it okay if this while took a late

that mere second has been stuck written on my fate

those arms gambled with my noes

even though a little lie

didn't hurt

didn't go

far from the beyonds

that red sweater

a path to the wallpaper

to the given weather

Mark Wanless Mar 2021
i'm going to the
liquor store the liquor store
i am going to
Your voice was like medicine.
Your eyes lit up my sky.
With you, nothing else remained relevant;
You crossed my T's and dotted my I's.

Sweet eyes. Hard like the liquor.
Intoxicate myself with you.
Sip away my needless anxieties.
We will call it a deathrace for love,
From me to you.
I'm saving the empty bottles of liquor I drink
And fill them up with all my memories
Of you, and how we used to love
And how you used to say to me
That you would never let me go
Sometimes I need to hear them
Even when they're not true, and I know
So I drink them up and choke on it
Trying to get it down my throat
The words you said that were never true
And maybe a shot of liquor on the go
A poem every day

this was supposed to be a poem about witchcraft but it went in another direction
Summer Oct 2020
numbers & figures are
nothing more than a flicker
of the winter chimney's smoky snicker;
fleeting as the sad beggar's liquor &
grandmother's empty wicker
chair, rocking with the gentle gale
breezing past rootless weeds
to settle on the frozen well —
Farewell, numbers & figures.
Sometimes I think I'm too fixated on numbers & figures, so this is a poem to remind myself not to be so caught up with them because 1. they do not define me and 2. they are as fickle as a breeze, might as well stop caring so much on fleeting things.
Allyssa Oct 2020
He asked her this one question.

She, beside him, curled up in her small frame. Knees tucked to her chest, pink lips, and coffee stained teeth, she smiled small.

"I've been asked this question by many," she says, "And I've always said things like someone's voice, or the way they held me. Maybe it was their laugh or the way my heart ached when I smelled their t-shirts at night.
You, though, will always leave me with an unanswered question.
I don't know why I love you but for some reason, my heart will whisper your name when I'm too intimate with a bottle pressed to my lips.
When the tears I cry are warm from the sound of your voice when it pours through the videos we've laughed in.
I don't think I love you but my heart does. Maybe that's why my mind cannot think of any reasons because you lie in my chest where it aches the most."
Excerpt from a page torn out of my diary of missing you.
Pockets Aug 2020
Beer for breakfast
Liquor for lunch
Drunk by dinner
Out by 1
clear conscience Jul 2020
don’t work no more.

need some kind of distraction.

**** it, might as well try writing

bad poetry.
cindy Jun 2020
Je me surprenais à songer aux saveurs de l'âme
Chaque moment où j'avais le corps endolori
Je me soumettais aux tentations les plus profondes, ces flammes
C'est dans la combustion que j'ai pu savourer la vie

Je me souvenais des oublis volontaires de mes récits
Chaque peine est l'origine d'une poésie
J'évite la littérature de mes inquiétudes
C'est dans l'oubli que j'ai conforté ma solitude
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