Rain falls down as you start your midnight trip. The steering wheel and emotions, both you try and grip. Rushing through your mind are the worries of the day Everything you should have tried to say. As the moon shines brightly in the sky You think of what it would be like to die. Before the existential dread corrupts your core You pull fast into the lonely convenience store.
The old clerk fiddles with the cigarettes Her old hands weakened by the 60-hour job That never brought her closer to happiness. You shake off the thought of who she is And make your way back to the poison aisle. Three tallboys That should do the trick. The smell of stale floor cleaner coats your nose As you make your way to the counter And as you request a pint of whiskey To wash down the beer you chose You battle the thoughts of suicide again. You pay the clerk And walk back out into the midnight air. The cold air smothers you The ringing of the door waves you goodbye. Will this be the last time?
You open your car door and take a seat The desire to drink covers you like a sheet. You crack open a beer and chug it down Hoping and praying it'll **** your frown. As you start the car, your head starts to buzz Pain and dread turn into fuzz. You make it home, and you drown in the rest Of all the medicines, this one works best. You treasure the feelings, the good and the bad You no longer feel so numb, no longer so sad. You throw up a river, you fall asleep Your thoughts of death are buried down deep. You wake up again to live some more Until later that night, you'll be called again To that convenience store.
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 24/8/20
this was supposed to be a poem about witchcraft but it went in another direction
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.
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.
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