"alcoholism" poems
She’s more fun when she is drunk
At least…until she’s not
Because she’s puking in the toilet
And regretting her last shot
She’s more confident when she’s drunk
Gorgeous and ready to score
Until she looks in a mirror
And feels even uglier than before
She likes herself more when she is drunk
Until that feeling goes away
When she is so far beyond gone
That her self-hatred comes out to play
She’s happier when she’s drunk
All her issues leave her brain
But they all come crashing back at once
And cause her so much pain
She likes the world more when drunk
It’s filled with so much good
Until one little thing sets her off
And she hates it all more than she should
She likes life more when she’s drunk
Her mind for once feels still
Terrified of losing that feeling
She soon wants to end things with a pill
But she can stop any time she wants
Or so she’d have you believe
Because alcohol makes her seem so happy
That is, until all her friends leave
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 3:21 AM UTC
the best addiction is
alcoholism,
because you can
drown your pain into
the sweet taste
of alcohol,
and forget all
about it.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
I want to write a poem about you,
but all the words sound good in my head until they get out on paper.
I can't make anything out of the slur of words I wish I could say to you.
There's a sentence for all the years I want you to have back,
and words for all the days you spent waiting for probation in a cell.
You are still just as much of a man as you were before they stripped away your sanity.
They say that people make mistakes,
But you had to give up most of your life for just one of yours.
I like to think you spend so much time in the company of a bottle
because somehow, in your mind, you'll find the years that you lost at the bottom of every one.
I want you to know that Alcoholism is not a choice,
Nor is it a death sentence.
I want you to know that I do not bow my head in shame at you;
You are not a monster.
You are a child,
One that never got to experience innocence before it was taken from you.
You are not a trophy to be on display,
You are not a spectacle to be snickered at,
You are not a John Doe to be left lying in the cold,
You are not next week's breaking news,
You are not stupid,
You are not broken.
You are not a statistic,
You are not a stereotype.
You are sick.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
This is the Last Straw –
and Something About Sacred Buckets of Holistic Ice Water
****** predators, human smugglers
Starvation in the Sudan, civil war
in Syria, mass executions in China
Journalists murdered almost everywhere
Fashionable infanticide, homelessness
Unemployment, urban terrorism
Mass ****** school shootings, wildfires, racism
An unstable national government
Anti-Semitism, border desperation
Riots, arson, ecclesiastical corruption
**** alcoholism, historical cleansing
Skinheads, abuse, Khardassianistas
Volcanos, the death penalty, free verse
Affluenza, Jerry Springer, The View
Herbal tea, antifa, anti-antifa
And the soul-sucking existential despair
Of inspirational singer-songwriters:
Nah, not a bit worried about plastic straws
But I must go now; The Voices are telling me
To pour a bucket of ice water over my head
(As long as it’s not a plastic bucket)
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
I am in a constant battle for control.
I am hard to deal with
because my therapist says
OCD will not rest
OCD does not care what time it is
OCD does not care where you are
OCD does not care who is watching.
Usually when I obsess over things
I see my life falling to shambles
I see people not loving me anymore
I see germs sneaking into my skin.
When my uncle, my aunt, and my friend all died
in a matter of three months,
i performed rituals every hour on the hour
sometimes even more.
My therapist says this will not go away.
My therapist says to come see her so we can try to cope with this.
My therapist does not understand that WE are not coping.
I am coping
not her
not anyone else
me.
My therapist is a sick person
she is still recovering from alcoholism
so how can she help me
if all she sees is a bottle of bourbon when she looks at me.
I am not a bottle of bourbon
I am a bottle of OCD and depression and anxiety
I am a bottle of drugs and alcohol and death
I am a bottle being smashed over your head
I am not coping
I am drowning
And people have stopped loving me
And my life is falling into shambles
And I think I may be getting sick
so what the **** are these rituals even doing for me
anyway.
I have stopped taking medication because
wanting to die has become habitual
and I fear that will become a ritual too.
If I die
all people will talk about is how much they loved me
even if they didn't.
If I die,
there will be no room to have my life fall to pieces
because I will be in peace.
If I die,
I cannot get sick because the soil
will be taking care of my body but
who will perform my rituals
once I'm gone?
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
hit the road
i’ve been bold
talking in my sleep
i grit my teeth
walking the streets at night
i’ve decided that everything is emptiness
everything as i know it, is emptiness
how refreshing life is
how incredibly refreshing my mind is
my mind is emptiness
my heart is emptiness
my lust is emptiness
my love is emptiness
my thoughts, my theories, my ambitions, my abortions, my cheating, lying habits, my dreams, my girlfriends, my world, my room, my hate, my anger, my joy, my pain are all emptiness
nothing happens
nothing is a word and words don’t exist
the way that i am tied to words is emptiness
the alcoholism is emptiness
the drugs are emptiness
the friends are emptiness
my family is emptiness
i am emptiness
there is no support, no conflict, no harbored poor emotions, no bold ideas, no sympathy, no death, no life and no person.
thank god, allah, buddha, shiva, abraham, dalai lama, bob dobbs, the cosmos, myself and all those other wonderful concepts that don’t exist because they are mere words.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
abolitionism
absenteeism
absolutism
abstractionism
absurdism
academicism
academism
achromatism
acrotism
actinism
activism
adoptianism
adoptionism
adventurism
aeroembolism
aestheticism
ageism
agism
agnosticism
agrarianism
alarmism
albinism
alcoholism
aldosteronism
algorism
alienism
allelism
allelomorphism
allomorphism
alpinism
altruism
amateurism
amoralism
anabaptism
anabolism
anachronism
analphabetism
anarchism
anecdotalism
aneurism
anglicism
animalism
animism
anisotropism
antagonism
anthropocentrism
anthropomorphism
anthropopathism
antialcoholism
antiauthoritarianism
antiblackism
anticapitalism
anticlericalism
anticolonialism
anticommercialism
anticommunism
antielitism
antievolutionism
antifascism
antifeminism
antiferromagnetism
antihumanism
antiliberalism
antimaterialism
antimilitarism
antinepotism
antinomianism
antiquarianism
antiracism
antiradicalism
antirationalism
antirealism
antireductionism
antiritualism
antiromanticism
antiterrorism
aphorism
apocalypticism
apocalyptism
archaism
asceticism
assimilationism
associationism
asterism
astigmatism
asynchronism
atavism
atheism
athleticism
atomism
atonalism
atropism
atticism
autecism
authoritarianism
autism
autoecism
autoeroticism
autoerotism
automatism
automorphism
baalism
baptism
barbarianism
barbarism
behaviorism
biblicism
bibliophilism
bicameralism
biculturalism
bidialectalism
bilateralism
bilingualism
bimetallism
biologism
bioregionalism
bipartisanism
bipedalism
biracialism
blackguardism
bogyism
bohemianism
bolshevism
boosterism
bossism
botulism
bourbonism
boyarism
bromism
brutism
bruxism
bureaucratism
cabalism
caciquism
cambism
cannibalism
capitalism
careerism
casteism
catabolism
catastrophism
catechism
cavalierism
centralism
centrism
ceremonialism
charism
charlatanism
chauvinism
chemism
chemotropism
chimaerism
chimerism
chrism
chromaticism
cicisbeism
cinchonism
civicism
civism
classicism
classism
clericalism
clonism
cockneyism
collaborationism
collectivism
colloquialism
colonialism
colorism
commensalism
commercialism
communalism
communism
communitarianism
conceptualism
concretism
confessionalism
conformism
congregationalism
connubialism
conservatism
constitutionalism
constructivism
consumerism
controversialism
conventionalism
corporatism
corporativism
cosmism
cosmopolitanism
cosmopolitism
countercriticism
counterculturalism
counterterrorism
creationism
credentialism
cretinism
criticism
cronyism
cryptorchidism
cryptorchism
cubism
cultism
cynicism
czarism
dadaism
dandyism
defeatism
deism
demonism
denominationalism
despotism
determinism
deviationism
diabolism
diamagnetism
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
Alcoholism took my father away from me.
I watched him destroy his life from the age of five.
When Austin left us- I watched his life shatter completely.
I started to plink away on the piano.
Then he started to pick up the pieces.
He got his life together, remarried, and is trying to repay a lost childhood.
So I continue to play.
Now, I'm watching both my sister's life come to crumbles at the lips of a bottle.
So I play louder.
One has gone to rehab for drugs and alcohol.
She is getting better- back on her feet.
The other has moved out and cut off communication with our Father.
So I keep playing.
I'll write a sonng or two for you-
and I'll wait for you to come home.
All I've ever known alcohol to do- is destroy.
And people wonder why the smell nauseates me..
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 12:02 AM 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
One thread came loose with alcoholism at a very young age.
She recovered. She forgot and proceeded.
One thread was yanked loose by a growing tendency to self sabotage.
She clawed her way out of the spiral.
One thread pulled at others when she learnt she didn’t need alcohol to have a good time.
She felt deprived by self-restraint. So she slightly caved.
One thread burned along with her personality when she became a stoner again.
She was suffocated yet high.
One thread was singed by ****
She fell back into her ***** habits. She found herself here, but not quite present.
She became dependant. As she flooded her body parts with superficial happiness, just a quick release, her mouth grew dry. Then the peeling skin on her stained lips began to stick together and she regressed into a still and faded silence. In the end, she was in shreds and blissfully unaware, alone with nothing but one solitary thread left to grasp at.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 7:30 PM UTC
Dear Lesley,
I'm sorry to have to do this through a letter, but
last time your crying just humiliated
the other couples in your group session.
Although, this might save embarrassment,
and make me look better, now that we are
both sleeping with other people. (If you
can call conjugal visits to your ex-husband people.)
This letter may well be the last memory
you will have of me, if your social worker
lets you keep it as a memento anyway.
I am leaving, and I won't be looking back either.
I am sure you won't be surprised or terribly upset.
It is completely your fault, no doubt about it!
Mainly, it is your long history with lying problems,
even more than your alcoholism, that keeps me
from being even remotely interested in continuing
this relationship with you. (I told you I forgave
you for sleeping with your boss, but I guess I
never really did.)
You would be so much better off finding someone
that can accept the emotional baggage that
you carry around, the ones with the orange tags.
Maybe your analyst can explain that to you better
than I can. I must say, I will miss some of the exciting
times we had together. Like when you got so drunk
and flirted with my father at our family Christmas
dinner. My mom has still not gotten the red wine stain
out of the tablecloth where you puked on it.
I'm glad this is finally done and we can go our
separate ways. I think you will find someone else
with whom to have an unhealthy relationship based
on physical attraction and a passion for strip-club bars.
Hopefully, this will happen incredibly far away.
Good riddance, and Happy New Year.
PS Maybe you should just go back to being a lesbian.
PPS I have no idea where you parked your car.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 2:23 PM UTC
I am from New Jersey.
From the paradise of small towns
And the inferno of concrete jungles.
I am from truck tire playgrounds,
Porch Clubs, and the whistle
Of the Riverline.
I am from divorce.
From alcoholism and denial,
From broken doors and hearts.
I am from next to hell.
From pouring out full forties
For one's homies passed away.
From too many candlelight vigils
And sidewalks littered with fourth grade pictures.
I am from the garden state.
From cows, corn, and Clinton,
And tractors in the parking lot.
I am from tradition.
From pasta and seven fishes,
From "Mafiosa!" screamed in the streets
And "No WHOPs" pasted on storefronts.
I am from love.
From three parents and four siblings,
From six dogs and duplicate holidays,
And the smell of tulips and holly.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
As they walked along after the matinee, the older brother teased his sister, “Hey, guess what, Frankenstein lives in the attic and he’s goin’ get you.” With a flushed face the little sister responded, "Nah-ah, besides the attic door is locked." And her brother smirked, “Think Frankenstein cares about locked doors?"
Throughout their childhood, the brother jumped out behind closed doors, terrifying his little sister, and with each fright he gave his own fear seemed to lessen. After a startle the sister thought, ‘Does my brother love me, like I love him?’, and she concluded, “He must, why else would he try to scare me to death?’
Within the decade, a sudden brain hemorrhage took their dearly loved mother. Now, untethered in their mother’s love, the siblings changed, tightened, within, While their father, a traumatized, war veteran, swiftly fell off the wagon, and the brother and sister cast off, rudderless, uprooted into troubled waters.
And with their hearts snapped shut, immersed in relentless grief, they parted ways. Some years later, their father died, bequeathed them both his unhealed pain. The brother, the sister, slid secretively into alcoholism, conceded the family custom, invested deeply in their despair, the two went on, married, raised families, conformed.
And time went by, as alcohol soothed the pain until the brother breathed his last, his belly taut with fluid, his liver destroyed, a life sentence ended. While she, the lone survivor, mysteriously yielded unto Grace and was pardoned, recovered, she finally understood, she knew deep inside; everyone did the best they could, even her.
…and within a circle of one; I loved them all forever and ever.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
i will carry your body from the flicker
i will lose my eye
four houndred and fifty seven times
before i jab back.
all this makes a sister look weak,
but this is what i know of patience and loyalty.
and we will stare into the souls we drain everyday
and drown in the woes of alcoholism
and suffocate in the smoke
and go bankrupt from the weekend rut.
and i am happy
that i know
i could be doing this alone
but alas
i have a twinsoul
a twinflame.
for vinagar girls,
full of *** and vice
and all horrible things,
somehow we manage to hold more value
in each other
in people and parents
and newcomers
than any one any where
can relate.
my partner in crime,
my fellow feline,
i will follow you into the flame
and drag you back out.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
when i told my friend that my new boyfriend loved sports and going out; partying, being loud and obnoxious, she grimaced and said she didn't know why i even liked him. i got angry with her - why did she not trust my gut?
i once told her that opposites attract, so we should be fine. we should have been.
but then came the fighting over little things, then came the mutual devaluation of each other's interests, then came the nights spent on the couch instead of in bed, his drinking. he would always take the books from my hands and throw them across the wall - ******** he called them. he'd always say i lived in my head, that i never gave him the attention he deserved, that he would take a ********** instead of me any time. and at some point, he had me loathing him more than i did myself.
yet, at the same time, i still loved him. it was like an addiction - i knew he was bad for me, but i clung onto him like he was air and i couldn't breathe. there were nights when i really couldn't.
sometimes it felt like he still loved me, too. when he came to the locked bathroom door and cried with me; apologizing over and over again. at those moments my love for him would crawl out of its cave - my heart - covered in blood, battered, bruised, but still standing. and it would hold him, whispering false truths in his ear. i would always forgive him, because opposites attract. it was just the way he was, he couldn't do anything about it.
even if he could, i frequently thought i didn't want him to. not because i was content with his violent outbrusts and alcoholism, or what he put me through on a daily basis - no. because i loved him, regardless of all the pain he caused me. and love means to accept someone for who they are.
but i came to realize that love is quite finite when all negative things seem infinite.
i hated the way we were so different. where i would sit in one place for hours on end, he'd walk around clumsily, breaking things, screaming, slamming doors.
he drove me mad. and, don't get me wrong, i am not a saint. i'm sure i did the same to him. maybe it's my fault that he turned out the way he did - perhaps if he had chosen to live with someone else, his smiles would still be kind rather than cruel. perhaps if i had changed for him - if i was more like him, we would have been okay. but my silence was deafening. i was convinced he didn't deserve to hear my voice. and he didn't, for days. sometimes he asked if i was pretending to be a ghost of what we used to be. i started questioning my previous way of thinking. do opposites really attract?
and i came to a conclusion. they really do. opposites attract, but they are not always good for each other. i had to learn that the hard way.
and just like a ghost, i faded. i left.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
Sitting here trying to make small talk, I'm going insane, we're all insane.
Broken topics over chips and salsa, god its so bizarre, I don't understand how "normal" we all are.
I keep my mouth semi-full so I'm unable to speak, I can't stand myself, **** why am I so weak?
Why does this bother me so? It's like no one even knows,
the truth,
be told it's a mess, I can't stand too much more of this, someone relieve me from this **** before it makes me sick..
All the underlying problems...drink to numb the pain but those same drinks taketh life away.
And I don't mean with death, for life still moves on, but it's broken into pieces and it's better off gone.
Cause one needs it to stay strong and the other knows that lifestyle is wrong:
Substances don't bring you happiness, they don't fix your pain, they ruin relationships and families all the same.
But we sat and we talked, topics in no particular range, and what hurts is seeing how things both have and haven't changed.
The connection is there, but the love has departed; neither hope nor intention to go back and restart it.
And now we're driving away and nothing is said, no mention of the insanity that hides in my head,
No acknowledgement to the tears I watch my own mom fight back..similar to the sick truth the whole situation lacked.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
No.
It is not ok with me to say that.
Gay is not a synonym for stupid.
Gay is not an insult, and I will not allow you to use it like one.
It is because of people like you
That our society is intolerant, ignorant, and unforgiving.
It is because of people like you
That our society revolves around the chauvinistic cult
That men are not manly if they don’t show preference
For a butts and **** attached
To a brainless body.
It is because of people like you
That hundreds of tormented, depressed teens attempt suicide
Every year.
It is because of people like you
That many succeed.
It is because of you
That one of my best friends is addicted to drugs
Struggling with alcoholism
And self-loathing
Because he can’t admit to himself
That he might be gay.
So no.
It is not ok with me.
That you are openly homophobic.
Because what if I were gay?
With my pretty face and big *****
Would you treat me differently?
Would you still joke around and flirt?
Because in the end,
Homophobia is the same thing as
Xenophobia
Racism
And sexism.
And the only thing that separates you
And the openly gay boy that you
Hate so much
is that he has strength to go against the
very tide
that has swept you and morals away.
Apr 26, 2011
Apr 26, 2011 at 6:06 PM UTC
we play with a retired professional but
none of the other kids mind—
his alcoholism has gotten the better of his muscle
memory and god doesn’t he look bad
the ball is an old piece of garbage made from
a kind of industry plastic
half-flayed alive by loving kicks
that expose the moldy gray rubber inner-
sphere like some soft eyeball
and, behind one of the goals, the
boy who plays goalkeeper only on Wednesdays
lounges like a pimply Greek sculpture—
unable to move as an epileptic fit lazily
puppeteers his body while the players pass the ball into his gut
and I step aside, too—
my stomach aches so badly for the crispy joy
of cold cereal I can’t play—
some days are like that—shed of their seriousness
because it’s more fun to play without a defense
even though we’re always losing **** it I just scored
a goal!
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 5:14 AM UTC
There are not enough
poems about manatees
If you are interested in human
rights being kicked like a dog
and justice being dragged
through mud, you can find it
If you are interested in love
that aches with a “burning
heart” or a “bleeding soul”
you can find it
If you are interested in death
that holds out its hand
to you like relief, or takes
one too early, you can find it
But where, I ask, do you find
a badger in a turtleneck?
Or a cup of coffee that doesn’t
sound so self important?
If you’re interested in the
ocean or the sea or maybe
a single “crushing wave
of emotion,” you can find it
If you’re interested in God
dying to save you, or God
abandoning you to the darkness
you can find it
If you’re interested in athletics—
especially running towards
dreams and horizons—and
losing and winning, you can find it
But where, I ask, do you find
a good left-handed centipede?
Or a wonderful, ice cold beer that
doesn’t turn into alcoholism?
If you want to find a poem about
how the “gray rain spills from
the clouds like the pain”
you can find it
If you don’t want to find a poem
about rain you’ll still find it
(cause those rain poems
are everywhere)
If you’re looking for a poem
about regret and forgiveness
and cruel mercy making false
promises, you can find it
But where, I ask, do you find
a barbarian ballerina?
Or a cigarette whose smoke doesn’t
outline the shadows of a lost soul?
Show me these things, show me
a fat manatee, and I will finally
take a deep breath and smile
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
second sight alternate mind
sliding down the slippery slope
chasing a rabbit into fantasyland
the world is the same but changed
this drink is full of laughter
this drink makes everything strange
and why am I here you may ask
as I refill my already refilled glass
to find myself of course
I've looked everywhere else
and this is the only place I exist
at the bottom of a bottle
recycling the abyss
I am alive tingling inside
and I know he is waiting
on the hangover side, but
I'll let him deal with it **** it up
while I just crawl away to Hyde
until he is again enticed
to walk away from his Jekyllite life
we're all inmates so what's your poison
prisoners here in alcoholism
Jan 16, 2022
Jan 16, 2022 at 8:47 AM UTC
I don't have pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.
I'll stay away from Yellowstone.
If one's asthmatic in the Eifel region
You don't pronounce the "P."
This won't **** me.
I don't have COPD.
Everyone coughs in blue smoke.
My throaty itch won't **** me.
I won't constrict and choke.
I don't have an infectious disease,
Despite my personality.
I run for shelter in acid rain.
I drink water with ice cubes,
And spray my green out back.
As much as I hate to, I avoid rusty nails.
*** is safe... and at a distance.
Despite being repeatedly told to,
I never eat ****
The great imitator
Is a snivelling mime.
If I'm bitten, I recognize the marks.
The erupting of the ring of fire won't **** me,
but perhaps I was precocious
To drop the "P" in
Pneumonoultramicroscopicscilicovolcanoconiosis.
I haven't succumb to animal flues,
I stay clear from the bars.
I donate to the SPCA,
Bet on ponies or the odds of SARS.
I don't have meningitis.
I like lights and loud music.
If I get the night sweats,
I turn down my electric blanket.
I haven't the minor or greater pox,
I spurn comparisons.
According to the scoop and scope,
I ascend and descent C free.
But the time spent on Referrals
Might be the death of me.
I don't have botulism.
My smile still concaves down.
Curling convex above it,
A condescending frown.
I'm not a *****
I feel every poke and like.
My digits number twenty...
Twenty one.
My glasses are smudge free.
If anything I see too well.
Alcoholism can't **** me.
Alcohol can.
I haven't cardio entropy,
But I'd be remiss
To dismiss
The wise counsel Oz gave me:
"Hearts can never be made practical until they can be made unbreakable."
So true.
So true!
Anyway, none of the above will get me.
But, I do have what you have.
The young and grown.
The able and ill.
A hand.
A sweeping hand.
A second hand
Setting those infectious nonogerms
Like diamonds
In my Time-x.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
capsized beating purple algorithm
for a heart,
cross-nit aspirations
still taste dirt on my teeth,
the mission creep of eager eyed poets,
carry a briefcase with my levi's --
close cut cigarette encounters,
all brick shantytown of a friendship
them lovelies run on endless,
it's starting to get cold outside.
restless sprites circle our *****
exhaling greek mythopoeics
every sure footed step.
alcoholism echoes in my skin
a depth charge i cannot cut out,
we all have broken thoughts here,
all have blind spots in our stomachs,
they read like a preacher's insecurities:
burly things we warm ourselves with,
the winters sting bitter.
something is wrong with me,
sinkhole of ambition and honey kisses,
all the great thinkers **** themselves,
it's the staunch lack of spotlight,
way the earth drips lackadaisical-like
we just call it a perfect orbit.
shake my hand and feel a goldilocks pulse
anemic shards of a cornered animal,
we cut right
to the bone
here, or so we tell ourselves.
and love is always the answer?
that sure footed toothy angel
so beautiful, it couldn't just be our
churlish blood,
frothing and calming,
frothing and calming,
electrons rise and fall to create light,
they still circle an untapped atrocity
perfectly,
like this, like it must be
god
or something close. something
stopping them from running, free
from bonds ionic or otherwise,
bare feet
beating the pavement until there are
no more stones to throw.
firstborns of the universe,
each star is a setting sun,
blinks staggered,
still grew us up quicker than most,
there is no aphrodisiac like heliocentrism.
them bones cut good
doped up on oxytocin,
those empty thoughts still rattling,
dig sharp -- then nice and numb.
and we cutthroat and glossy,
sharper than ever.
walk outside
smoke a cigarette
know how much you love her,
look at the stars --
it's ******* beautiful isn't it
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC