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Stay sad Feb 6
When you get older
Wil you remember
All the things
You lost on us
It hurts me
More than you'll ever know
Wish i could go back
To the days i was lost on you
Night full of stars
Adrenaline rushes
The bittersweet taste of your lips
A cold gust of wind outside
Cigarette smoke around our faces
Eyes light and glister
Wrapped up blankets
Two glasses of malt whiskey
A fire in the burning in the hearth
And in us
A comforting arm
A comforting smile
It was good
But perfect can never stay
They pushed me,
And you away
You came back
So please come in
And help me remember
When you were lost on me
If I let myself
Love you
Cash Carlos Jan 14
"Kiss me," she said,
and I will disappear into the sky
like the last star at twilight,
leaving nothing but blue."
Rowan S Jan 13
The brown liquor creeps
Into the gray crevices
Rye whiskey, you win
Again, here is an old one. Self medication left me in progressively darker and deeper holes. My life is by no means perfect after almost a year and a half of sobriety;

But at least I don't let my problems masquerade as solutions anymore.
Rowan S Jan 5
Creeping guilt
Haunting shame
Liquid burn
Checking out now
When my mind won't slow
Distilled rye
Filling the gray canyons, the crevices
Pulsing, swimming fire
Hopes that this poison
This pleasure
Will scorch
And end
This madness
Old poem. I used to drink for many reasons, but ultimately, it was always me searching for oblivion.
Today I poured a cup of whiskey for a man that’ll never drink it,
The bar tender said “where’s your friend”
“In heaven” I replied,

His face looked solemn,
And for a second I swear I saw him have a flash back in his eyes,
He poured another cup of whiskey,
“For the ones that left to early, this ones on the house”

And so the glasses stayed there,
Un-drank, all night.
When I went to leave they where still sitting, Lonely against the counter top.

I walked by in the morning, there was a police line by the door.
The bartender took a shot gun after closing and used it on himself.

Through the window I could still see the glasses of untouched whiskey,
But instead of two glasses there were three.
Ron Gavalik Dec 2018
The writer’s job
is to build the words,
not perform for applause
or join cheap cliques.
The printed word, baby,
that’s the nervous anticipation
for the 300 pound *****
who ***** the best ****.
Words are the hit of whiskey
after the sun drops
below the buildings.

-Ron Gavalik
Hit my Patreon and seek TRUTH.
mera Dec 2018
To forget or not to forget.
I shall drink my last cup of my dreams of you.
As I stare morosely at these bottles around me.
Each broken bottle is a story, of me, of us.
I feel the sorness in my throat and its burning slowly.
I feel old. Shall I forget these years? I can’t believe these years has been mirage
Taylor Ann Dec 2018
I am not roses and champagne
Or birds on a sunshiney morning
I am not high heels and pretty dresses and bright colors
I am not the girl with a positive comeback to every little thing in life
I am not the person who you can look at in the early morning hours and find sleeping like an angel in your arms as you caress my cheek in the early sunlight

I am strong and independent
I am determined
I may not be champagne and rose
But I am steel and whiskey
I am as strong as steel and can take some of the strongest heat
I am whiskey because you'll remember my exact tones and hints even after I am long gone
I am the woman with an optimistic yet realistic comeback for things that happen in your life
I am vans and leggings because, ****, I have places to go a **** of a lot faster than heels can take me
I am most likely stealing the covers at night and if you wake me up before 8am you will get the worst version of myself
I am muted earth tones with hints of sunflower yellows
I am steel
I am not roses and champagne or a bird chirping on a Sunday morning.
c Dec 2018
most days
i tend to bottle up my emotions
until the glass
isn't half full
but full and empty

today i am pouring it out
in the form of liquid gold
burning my lips
and biting my tongue for me

am i too strong for you?
you sip slowly now.

the way your soul ignites
tells me not
if it is passion or pain
that you taste on my lips

it seems you care not for the taste either way.
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