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Frank Ruland Oct 2014
1) it gets my night nicely going

2) because one is never enough

3) this is where the buzz begins

4) to get my empathy slowing

5) it's hard to kick this stuff

6) not like the beer I can rescind

7) sobriety I am forgoing

8) showing apathy's not a bluff

9) to wear life's barrier thin

10) tomorrow's not worth knowing

11) don't care if my life gets snuffed

12) because every breath's a sin
Alcoholism is a scary thing. Truly. I think this embodies the rationale behind drinking in the mind of an alcoholic... I know I drink a lot, but I also know it's not the answer. For those of you who hit the bottle and find find nothing at the bottom, I'm here for you.
Frank Ruland Sep 2014
I'll have a drink at the end of the night
I'll have a drink and chase it with spite
I'll have a drink when I feel bitter
I'll have a drink to make it better
I'll have a drink when I feel like thinking
I'll have a drink when I am drinking
I'll have a drink when I feel like quitting
I'll have a drink after I realize that's unfitting
I'll have a drink when God is willing
I'll have a drink when I need refilling
I'll have a drink when I feel like cursing
I'll have a drink when I need rehearsing
I'll have a drink when life *****
I'll have a drink when I don't got no luck
I'll have a drink when you have me figured out
I'll have a drink when you find yourself in doubt
I'll have a drink in celebration
I'll have a drink without hesitation
I'll have a drink; I'll be open
I'll have a drink to end this poem
Frank Ruland Sep 2014
If you're gonna drink, drink

Don't drink to remember

Don't drink to reminisce

Don't drink to forget

Don't drink to feel

Don't drink to heal

Don't drink to anesthetize

Don't drink to see

Don't drink to clarify

Don't drink to nullify

Don't drink to create

Don't drink to destroy

Don't drink to canonize

Don't drink to demonize

Don't drink, unless it's to drink

Because,
then,
it
          stops
being
drinking.
Frank Ruland Jul 2014
Truth is, I haven't forgotten about you. I know we're over, and you're never coming back. We're two different people. We always had been. I still don't know where your at, but I hope you're okay. Let this be our message in a bottle, should you ever get curious enough to walk the shorelines of the place we used to meet. I half-hope you don't ever go back there. If you do, you'll stumble upon every other inebriated, embittered, hollow rant I've written down, stuffed in empty bottles of Jack that I've been writing all these years. You'll come to see quickly just how much I've been hurting. How angry I've become. Just how much the hate has eaten away at me. You'll be so disheartened to see just how much the boy you fell in love with has changed for the worst. You, who taught me what love was, would be hurt the most by my downward spiral into anger and contempt. The words written in those bottles, however, are no fault of your own. Truth is, I don't know just where the blackness began to taint me. All I know is the infection's rate of spread was exponential and unmerciful. It contaminated every fiber of my being. But, as you read those spiteful, scorned letters of enmity, know that I never once hated you. I... Suppose my sadness took on a life of its own soon after you left me. After awhile, it must've mingled with confusion in respect to why I had been left behind by my only angel, which spawned anger. As the anger raged within like the aftermath of a ***** bomb, I took to dousing the fire with alcohol, but forgot that alcohol makes a fire flare up more. And within my constant state of anger, I was allowed too much time to contemplate with my muddled mind. My thoughts grew dark, and from the bleakness burst forth an ill-conceived hatred that was a mask--a bandage?-- no, an excuse, to wallow in my lonlieness and heartache. I forgot the lessons you had taught me along the way. I forgot the meaning of mercy. But most of all, I forgot what you said about letting go. Truth is, I failed you. The day you left to go find yourself, I gave up. I don't remember trying not to keep on caring. The apathy makes me almost amnestic. But, through all of it I remembered your face. That smile. Your kiss. The future we talked about. I guess that didn't really do much for my outlook, but I remembered because they meant something to me. In short, I'm sorry if you think I hate you. I don't. I never could. The anger is something I'll have to learn to work through. The sadness will never fade, but I'll learn to not drown myself in rotgut just to cope. You never were why I wrote so many inebriated, embittered, hollow rants, or drank the bottles to stuff them in. Truth is, I'm the bad guy.
Frank Ruland Jul 2014
And with a hollowed heart I
breathe in this batch of brimstone.
I feel the burn and disintegrate as the
high--low?--takes me away.
"Ascension," and "declension" are
irrelevant when your ups are downs and
downs are spent getting back up.

With this splintered heart I
drown myself in rotgut.
I taste the misery and know
I am incomplete.
The sauce take off the edge,
but blurs the lines that much more.
I walk the line, unsure, how
close I am to
tumbling off the cliff.

With an angry heart I
type an angry text.
Every letter bears my indignation--
a seal of my consent.
I sit there for awhile and
wallow in black contempt.
I toss it against the wall and watch it
shatter into it's little pieces.
It's broken in such a way
it can't be put back together.
Fate is such a cruel mistress:
you live your life and then you're
subjected to tumult and torment.

— The End —