"alcoholic" poems
Dusting off the rabbity
that squirrely tempo anxiety,
closing in with night.
The irresistible pattern
the irrational illogical fight
a battle with one’s discipline,
mirroring our might.
I make it home a fluttering
belly twirled and muttering,
I tell myself tis alright!
The damage done, and everyone,
I’m just like them and millions more
succumbing at the Devil’s door.
And the taste, the burn,
the healing calm,
the shaking and the thinking gone.
Knock one back, slam out another
night is early, rock it brother,
Tying on a swilly swirling
buzzed-out brain and mind a twirling. . .
“Ahhhh…”
I feel better now, exhilarated,
exasperation falls to stout resound;
I pour again and knock it down!
“Ahhhh…”
Spinning now, not to say I’m spun
but choosey choosing several a pun
I see myself an accomplished one!
Yes, that’s it, that is me,
look upon with thoughts of glory
yank open the freezer for glass that’s hoary. . .
How cool am I? certainly not boring
all night I’m here, pouring, pouring. . .
Buzz subsides, thoughts slow too,
lurid leering, slobbering swearing,
stupid actions and nothing new?
I lose the bottle,
I lose my shirt,
***** on myself,
pass out in dirt.
Another night of drunken hero,
time that’s wasted for kingly Nero.
But who am I to judge myself?
*I’m hardly worse than anyone else?* *
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
Separate from
Love.
God.
Food.
Money.
Cleanliness.
Water.
Sleep.
The alcoholic from drink.
The *** addict from --
Air.
Time.
Privacy.
Freedom.
These things tear down, cause
Stress.
Illness.
Fear.
Sadness.
Anger.
But the return is hopeful,
As is the possibility of a won battle,
And, sometimes, it takes a few tries.
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 7:48 PM UTC
I saw the Maori Jesus
Walking on Wellington Harbour.
He wore blue dungarees,
His beard and hair were long.
His breath smelled of mussels and paraoa.
When he smiled it looked like the dawn.
When he broke wind the little fishes trembled.
When he frowned the ground shook.
When he laughed everybody got drunk.
The Maori Jesus came on shore
And picked out his twelve disciples.
One cleaned toilets in the railway station;
His hands were scrubbed red to get the **** out of the pores.
One was a call-girl who turned it up for nothing.
One was a housewife who had forgotten the Pill
And stuck her TV set in the ******* can.
One was a little office clerk
Who'd tried to set fire to the Government Buldings.
Yes, and there were several others;
One was a sad old quean;
One was an alcoholic priest
Going slowly mad in a respectable parish.
The Maori Jesus said, 'Man,
From now on the sun will shine.'
He did no miracles;
He played the guitar sitting on the ground.
The first day he was arrested
For having no lawful means of support.
The second day he was beaten up by the cops
For telling a dee his house was not in order.
The third day he was charged with being a Maori
And given a month in Mt Crawford.
The fourth day he was sent to Porirua
For telling a ***** the sun would stop rising.
The fifth day lasted seven years
While he worked in the Asylum laundry
Never out of the steam.
The sixth day he told the head doctor,
'I am the Light in the Void;
I am who I am.'
The seventh day he was lobotomised;
The brain of God was cut in half.
On the eighth day the sun did not rise.
It did not rise the day after.
God was neither alive nor dead.
The darkness of the Void,
Mountainous, mile-deep, civilised darkness
Sat on the earth from then till now.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 7:53 AM UTC
I am not an alcoholic,
I just like beer.
I am not an alcoholic,
I'm just a little hungover.
I am not an alcoholic,
I just want to drink with my friends.
I am not an alcoholic,
I am just bored.
I am not an alcoholic,
I just can't sleep.
I am not an alcoholic,
I just like to feel warm.
I am not an alcoholic,
I just like to feel dizzy.
I am not an alcoholic,
I just want to feel brave.
I am not an alcoholic,
I just want to feel something.
I am not an alcoholic,
I just want an excuse to tell someone I love them.
I am not an alcoholic,
I just feel better when I drink.
I am not an alcoholic,
I only hide it because my parents would yell.
I am not an alcoholic,
I am only sixteen.
I am not an alcoholic,
I just need something to cling to.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
God. How am I still not okay?
God. It's been so long.
God. I'm so tired of life right now.
God. What happened to me?
I was such a nice kid.
I was calm all the time.
Mature for my age,
Little but so lively.
I was so helpful.
So loyal.
I always supported my trust.
But I never really spoke my mind.
I was shy.
I was small.
I never stood up for my feelings
I never stood up for myself.
And now I'm older.
I realize I don't need support.
I need myself.
I need confidence.
Speaking your mind is not wrong.
Standing up for your feelings isn't rude.
Standing up for yourself isn't mean.
Saying what you feel doesn't make you imperfect.
No one's perfect. Not even them.
The ones you hate for being so amazing.
Maybe she has anxiety.
Maybe his mom is alcoholic.
No one has a perfect life.
There's not one perfect family in the world.
There is not a person in the world who's perfect.
There's not a person who doesn't have one bit of strife.
But just because you aren't perfect.
Doesn't make you less worth it.
You're amazing.
You're still charming, kind, and strong.
You're just more experienced.
You just understand some more things now.
And maybe, just maybe,
You just aren't as shy anymore.
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 4:17 PM UTC
Her chill
Sends tears down my cheeks
Like a cataract over a hill
Her snow
Slaps my face
Like a **** slaps a ***
Her ice
Makes me slip
Like an alcoholic's vice
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
First there is the prep.
The roommate.
Wearing salmon colored pants.
He has Shaggy from Scooby Doo
On his left thigh.
The alcoholic.
She has a drinking problem.
She is in denial of her drinking problem.
She hangs out with the loners.
The loners.
Unkempt, unattractive and fat in all the wrong places.
The blond looks like Tom Petty.
The one with dark hair, glasses and braces
They live next door.
Living together but segregated.
Wild cards.
All of us.
©Gambit '13
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. There are children, and then there are alcoholics. One will never harmonize with the other.
Because alcoholics are never parents. They are shells, empty casings of love mixed with a burning taste of whiskey.
They are echoes of slurred, “Goodnight, I love you.” and “See you in the morning.” Each word filled with love, but blinded by the haze of liquor, so strong it fills your eyes with tears.
But most importantly, a child of an alcoholic will never be a child. No matter their age, they have gained the experience of those five times their age. They have watched life end with each tip of the bottle, but begin again when the sun breaks through their window.
I read stories about children who spend their days without a care in the world. And as a child, I wanted nothing more than that for myself. I wanted the carelessness, not the impossible burden of responsibility and secrecy that I held, hand in hand with resentment and hatred for the people who raised me.
There is no such thing as a child of an alcoholic. It’s not that we don’t exist— we do. But a child will never be a child when their parents can never be a parent.
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
*you,
drowned,
me,
and,
now i'm trying to get...* sober,
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
You were an alcoholic,
And I was just another bottle.
Maybe you won't break
The next bottle you drink from.
I doubt it, though.
You will drink and break until you wobble.
You are an alcoholic,
And I let myself forget it.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
A-L-C-O-H-O-L-I-C
strange world we live in,
Two letters
separate the poison
from the poisoned.
I-C
i suppose we all try see
yet we fail to believe it ,
we work every moment for them
until the alcohol becomes
the A-L-C-O-H-O-L-I-C.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 2:32 PM UTC
We sat across the table
and I couldn't look away
from all his tattoos.
Without thinking,
I stretched out my hand
and extended my finger.
I began to trace
the arcade tickets that ran
the length of his arm.
He grew up with his grandfather
and they spent hours in his arcade.
His grandfather was his first best friend,
so the tickets they won were his first tattoo.
I could feel his smile grow.
He loved his tattoos
and now I did, too.
He left a mark on my life.
Just like the ink
on his skin.
I see him everywhere.
I can't tell if he tattooed himself
in my mind or under my eyes.
There's no escaping
or replacing him.
There's just no one like him.
He had a kind of goodness
that could be seen
in the smile that
would burn into the back of my mind,
haunting me for years.
He was just dorky enough
to get a laugh out of me
when I had the weight of the
world on my chest.
If you're lucky enough
to even know him,
he'll put a tattoo in you, too.
Whether you want it or not,
you will never forget him.
Trust me, I've tried.
He comes out of nowhere
and he helps you.
He asks for help
just as much as you.
It's just enough
to make you think
that he needs you, too.
God knows he was what I needed.
I needed him like
an alcoholic needs his whisky.
He was my whisky.
His finger tips
had a different kind of ink
and he was part of me with every touch.
I swear he had needles
in the tips of his fingers.
His touch always stung,
and now I will never
forget that sting
that is now stuck
in the parts of me he touched.
All the hugs,
the intentional and unintentional ways
that we touched.
They left their mark,
their pain-riddled stain on me.
The stains of him were left
with memories and stories
and they were attached
to songs that I can no longer listen to
and places I can no longer visit.
He came into my life so quick
and he left just as fast.
I think about him often.
I dream about him often.
It's like he stops in now and then
to catch up in chat in my sleep.
He took a part of me
with him when he left.
But his memories remain
and I don't want them.
I think about the goals he had
and I hope he achieves them.
I just wish I could be the one
that gets to congratulate him.
He will be leaving in August
and I will probably never see
or talk to him again.
But I will never be able
to forget him.
He is the one tattoo
I wish I could remove.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
There is a stranger sleeping on your floor
but you wanted an artist.
Beautiful things aren't easy.
I am tamed, comfortable.
You are wild. Smoke slips over my nose
when I think of you.
Alcoholic sweat, fingers down my throat
and I am North,
northbound.
Ivy League meets the Yellow Rose.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 5:09 AM UTC
I forgive you
Yet not forget
The bluish hue
With a scarlet
Tinge on my cheek...
Your abusive taunts
Endlessly woven lies
Alcoholic brawls
The redness of eyes
Glaring at me
With naked dislike
Of me and my family
And all my tribe...
Yet I always pardon
As this is a **** curse
Bestowed upon
Me for using your purse
To meet my needs
How can I forget
Those early deeds
My wants were met
With your toil n sweat...
I truly forgive you
As you earned fame
Women too came to woo
Without any **** shame
Threw themselves at you
For wealth and name
Success in your head
Women by your side
Your drinking was raised
As guilt made you hide
Behind the glass and smoke
You made your life a living joke...
Forgiving I have to be
For when you compare
Those beauties to met
I am just dumb and fair
With a plain Jane face
And meagre background
Who brings you disgrace
To those who surround
You and your basking glory
Yet I belong to your days of penury...
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
i was called a genius once,
then I started drinking
perhaps the Genius' burden
is being alcoholic?
*Mrs. Brisby
and the Rats
Mrs. Brisby
and the Rats
Mrs. Brisby
and the Rats* *
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 2:28 AM UTC
drunk on the idea that
2 a.m. phone calls give way
to true love,
and afternoon suggestions
would give you a reason
to see me soon.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
So I'm just sitting down
Beside a stranger
Playing his guitar beautifully,
Meditating on the idea of how we
As human beings can only go so far.
As far as you can go
Exceeds as far as you can see.
I'm physically near-sighted.
I'm not sure if it's because of that long ago accident
When a tsunami of gasoline soaked my eyes,
But everything far is a water color blur to me,
Is it in fact the same for you?
There are addicts on the curb,
Abandoned dogs without a home.
How did they get there?
I can guess and assume,
Without the slightest clue.
I'm as anxious as an alcoholic
In a state of withdrawal.
Did I fall from Heaven like Lucifer?
Slightly overweight
Then slightly anorexic.
I've thought of less lately,
Less of fate.
Struggled with labels,
"That kid is anti-social."
As soon as
Words *** like fertile *****
You regret the consequence's backlash.
Why am I even bringing up **** from the past?
Don't get me wrong,
My story is not a complete sob story.
Anything I hold back,
I will admit and confess and address,
Always.
Originally written 2/4/11
Revised 10/15/14
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
The Aces check their sleeves,
Hearts rippling across the breeze.
The Queen arises
Slowly,
Torn dress ripped at the knees.
The Jack saw his fill
And quickly took his leave.
Stood trembling in a doorway,
Mind struggling to believe...
The King was an alcoholic,
It was widely known to be so,
Each eve he would sit solemn,
Wine in hand and sword on show,
Clapping to the Jokers' japes
As he danced and sang
About love and fate.
But how was the King to know?
Not two rooms away
His wife had lain,
With a smile and a *****
Creating a cuckold and a fool...
The Jack had had enough
And promptly marched
To the throne room.
Armed with only knowledge,
Unleashes inevitable typhoon.
The winds will rise,
This house shall succumb,
Imploding inwards
Till the house is done.
And all that remains
Among ash and decay,
Broken hearts and broken spades,
Is the Jokers last laugh.
A mockingbirds call as daylight fades.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
Blue eyes that are as encompassing as the ocean
Silk skin I wish to peruse and embrace
Skin that my lips lust to kiss
That my tongue lust to taste
The consequences for this adulterous heart I surely will pay
For it will do more than engage in intimate conversations it will manipulate my words
So my bare hands can caress your curves
Like an alcoholic in the bar I’ll never learn
This is not what love is
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
Mother always says you are your father’s child,
So , since he’s an alcoholic … & a dead beat dad….
Does that change me into something bad …?
At some point in 2004, my father stopped being a father at all.
He stopped calling, stopped trying, and ultimately,
Stopped caring.
Does that mean that I stopped caring too?
The fact that my father's an *** hole
to the highest degree and chose
Drugs and alcohol over his own daughter….
Does that change the fact that I am anything but him.
Does it make a difference that he no longer cares
or tries to have any relationship with me or the fact
He abandoned all responsibilities and therefore lost all of my respect?
I will always be the "father's daughter" I longed for,
yet never achieved.
I'll have my "daddy issues" to talk about in group.
They tried to fix me with a med
That sick pill taste like lead
Perhaps shock therapy instead
he did zap me till I wished I was dead
The fact that my father did nothing but
Beat me
Bruise me
Bleed me
Hurt me
Break me
so Does that change me into something bad …?
Does this change that I was always told that I'd end up just like him?
Does this change the times I longed for his hugs,
Does it change the memories I hold of being held in his drug ridden hands
and the smell of alcohol on his clothes?
Will I ever come to make amends with the man who brought me into
this world just to abandon me in the same world?
Will he ever know how much I hurt?
Does that change me into something bad …?
Will I Ever be someone different from him
Does that change the fact that I am anything but him.
And that I long for everything but Him!
Layal Charara – October 6th 2014
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC
I am an alcoholic
Drunk on you
Sober 52 minutes and counting;
Down to the next glass.
You're bad for me,
But I keep swallowing the burn
And I crave you after a long day
After a hard day
After a good day
With every meal
And for every celebration
And to spend those rock bottom moments
On the rocks with you
But the ***** is
You're my whiskey and coke
And you leave me there, with only
My loneliness left down to choke.
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 7:41 PM UTC
In My Salad Days
Salad Days
**Wikipedia:
Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.**
~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Salad
Hints of tints of golden
pear skins,
combine with
ruby'd cranberries
each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men,
each wrinkle,
a life's recording.
All are mates for the
marcona almonds
nestling, playing hide n' go seeking
tween silk sheeted leaves of
butter lettuce.
All dressed to the nines,
underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire
marinade.
Coated, bathed, loved,
protected by a vinegar of balsams,
aged grape must, pressed,
a lovely, desirable color,
a brown and bronzed rust,
pressed, then left,
to easy rest for
oh so many years,
like I do, easy resting,
when you feed me in
My Salad Days.
The Days
Though it was a life, decades destructed
Millenniums of de minimus,
Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell,
Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of
Next Year and Jerusalem,
Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting.
Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine
Purposely Spilled,
By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth,
To example, to symbolize that
Messiness in life,
Is O.K.
The Salad Days
Salad served with irony generous,
When beard greyed and scraggly,
White speckled, wisps of sea salt,
All my youthful greenery, long wilted.
Yet the words herein writ are my
Afikomen, my just dessert,
My victory song of Hallelujah
Just before we eat, celebrating
My Feast of Ascension, marking a
Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of
My Salad Days.
It was only when
I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days,
With the taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen.
When words fell from smiling lips, and
Rain and tears flew upwards, and
Each and every breath was an
Amen.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
He belches verses of prayer
from the acidity of his gut,
staggering upright
on two toddler feet,
he trails drunkenly
to the fridge,
scarce with only a few dented beers,
a bucketful of ice to feed him,
till the next scroungers pay-check is due.
Cracking open a frozen one,
it hisses a warrior's cry,
loud in the stillness
then dies swiftly,
as he raises the carcass to his split lip
swilling alcoholic entrails
round him gums.
Wincing slightly,
the beer half-empty in his hand,
he twitches a pink eye
in pain
as something rolls
around his jaw,
the made-of-man pinball stage
has begun a game
without him.
Gathering his saliva
into a hard bullet,
he spits the foreign object
onto splintered floorboards,
where his last tooth lands,
a final casualty
of his handsome youth.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
I believe I drink more tea than alcoholics drink alcohol
And it makes me drunk
In its own way
And I fear it would ruin my teeth
The way alcoholics fear it would ruin their liver
But we drink it anyway
Until the damage is too clear to ignore
I look at the mirror and see how terrible my teeth have become
As an alcoholic holds his stomach in pain
And we both go for another glass
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC