"coors" poems
Churches and cathedrals filled with paralegal misfits,
its just sick how beautiful nations can come to this.
Bowing down on knees just to see a better view,
quoting a bunch of words or two,
you lie sins still comes in multiples.
I know because I've seen many clips being load,
and triggers pulled to explode flesh just to expose the soul.
You wash your faces with holy water,
then when service is over your back on corners bringing wars such as black on black slaughter.
Selling dopamine to fends hellacious scenes seems to be clear to see hell-raiser dreams I seem to intervene,
contradictions to competitions, imperfect visions,
natural destruction I can't believe,
a deep pit I can't perceive.
Arab stores selling crack, Coors and ****** ******
Nobody scores in this world of imperfections.
A twisted method and deal we keep our lips sealed,
and peace is killed all because of the choices of freewill.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 8:34 AM UTC
Well I like the taste of Whiskey, but today it was just a disguise.
The reason I’ve been drinking, Is because she said goodbye.
She turned away from me and she walked right straight to him.
So I called up my 3 amigos Johnny, Jack and Jim.
Chorus
Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam,
Whenever I need them, they’re here for me,
They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears,
And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers.
So I don’t drink Bud, Miller or Coors light,
I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right.
So I got in my truck and headed for the creek
Pulled out my pole and I started a streak
15 bass and a couple of brim
Then I started thinking about her and him
Her in his arms in the back of the truck
I started damning all of my luck
Walked to the yeti and popped open the top
Nothing in there that would make it stop
Drove to the house and opened the door
Those three bottles where there on the floor.
Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam,
Whenever I need them, they’re here for me,
They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears,
And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers.
So I don’t drink bud, miller or Coors light
I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right.
Woke up in the morning with the light creeping in
Sitting in the chair right where I had been
Phone started ringing; my head was pitching a fit
Recognized the number, so I answered it
She said she was sorry and that she had been wrong
She started crying, saying she wasn’t strong
I’d heard enough, I was trying to mend
I told her no, goodbye, so I pressed end
Sat back down, phone ringing again
Decided to spend some more time with my men
Reached on down picked em up off the floor
One more time I wouldn’t need her no more
Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Good old Jim Beam,
Whenever I need them, they’re here for me,
They’ll drown out the hurt and dry up the tears,
And do in one glass, what takes 15 beers.
So I don’t drink bud, miller or Coors light
I go straight for the whiskey and knock it out right.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 10:02 PM UTC
Hunting dove down on the backroad
way on back only the rancher knows
he doesn’t care so we wait for flight
12 gauges ready to start our plight
Ring necks, white wings, and mourning’s are game
chichi birds make us swing all the same
listening for the whistle and the beat of the wing
one of us today, will win the brass ring
Limiting out is what we’re hoping for
but if not, you couldn’t hope for more
outside with friends and family alike
kids getting bored, gone on a hike
Men at the truck with cold Coors Light
relaxing outdoors, no one’s uptight
suns getting low, they are about to fly
here they come, hear the wings sigh
Draw a bead and a lead and fire away
one bird down, hope there’s more we pray
birds on the tailgate at the end of fight
get em’ all clean before the black of the night.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
the compensation for my competence?
a can of Coors occasionally crowned
with sticky notes instruction-filled and dense,
with worn old shoe string thick and tightly bound,
a brief hurrah before a list to do,
if time were air, with duty i'd turn blue,
a present given as a false pretense,
his recompense? a crushed Coors can atop
the boss' desk, a drop spilled on the wood,
a single sticky note stuck to the drop,
"your list of things to do, i could, I should...
yet reach up to that single book, top shelf!"
("Learn How to Fix Your Life--Do It Yourself!")
soon management will purge all its dead wood,
and driftwood i will be among the planks,
and crates expelled above board for to stay
afloat, the company in all its ranks,
will learn that without wood the boat will stray
not only from its sure intended course,
but from the surface to the floor of course,
to join the tiger shark and manta ray,
soon supervisors, managers and such
will join department heads, vice presidents,
chief officers valued, appraised worth much,
thrown overboard to chase those dividends,
that sink so silently to ocean floor,
where there exists no air lock's safety door,
when futures join the pasts through these presents,
my recompense for knowing when to quit?
a can of Coors occasionally crowned
with smiling lips and laughing breath of wit,
my happy feet in new shoes leather-bound,
a new ship where appreciation rings
the ship bells of respect on many things,
smooth sailing through safe seas without a ground.
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
the empties
of the week
hold guard over my room.
they stand
like brave sentinels
and we watch the sun rise together.
bottles, cans, flasks, drams
these are my friends,
the empties
of the week.
sunlight burns
off of tinted brown glass
and i am alone,
except these are my friends,
the empties
of the week.
Pabst (7)
Coors (4)
Magic Hat (12)
Sierra Nevada (6)
Heineken (8)
Jack Daniel's (3)
Tanqueray (2)
Jameson (6)
Crown Royal (2)
Wild Turkey (5)
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 7:11 AM UTC
the one little bee bit me.
pit me up
against my me.
tea. for three. now serves only me.
for thee, has been a destroyer to my kind handles and controls
you drank coors.
i smiled as a child .
for reasons coldy draw that in my childish state I saw
that star that told me such a nursery rhyme
and said that if i should give it time,
some will would have me find
that stories make life chime
and
together in ******** cohesion
with knotted roots of profusion
and exstactic empathofusion moving.
and
the story was you. with your coors.
twinkle said the star and I hungered and sang through all time
to hear such another nursery rhyme
only to get the buckled pang
from my empty state of mind.
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 7:48 PM UTC
When I turned sixteen, I brought a girl home drunk and stumbling
A day later, I was interviewed by the government criminal investigation
Two months later, she was disowned by her parents
Last I heard, she's at a rehab in Florida
It's been a long time since I've seen her.
When I was fourteen, I hid cigarettes in my backpack, and lighters in my wallet
Used to sit in the middle of a basketball court and watch my stress float away in a noxious grey cloud
I stashed my twelve dollar pack of coors in a bush behind the half-wall
It's been a long time since I've seen those.
I was thirteen when I found a papercutter in the drawer of the art room.
Took it home with me, fell asleep to the sound of it scathing in and out of its sheath
I once got so frustrated I wanted to slice my throat with it
I threw it out the window
It's been a long time since I've seen it.
When I was fifteen, I went out with friends and got wasted on chocolate liquor
Two weeks later, *****
the day after, tequila
and the week before, strawberry daiquiri
I don't remember much.
It's been a long time since I've done that.
When I was thirteen, I wrote poetry to sort out my emotions
It's been a long time since I've done that...
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
1800
Georgie boy
busch
bud
coors
PBR
they slide down the relaxed throat
of an unrelaxed youth
and these red squiggly lines mark my poems
as if to say
hey,
Harry buddy,
you realize that you make no god **** sense,
right?
and who decides what is and what isn't
nonsensical
All I know is that these crazy ******* yankees
are making me lose my grip on the English stiff upper lip reality
My tenth grade history teacher/JV soccer coach
liked to make songs up about me
There's only one Harry Baxter
true.
only not
there are many of us
the good Harry
The bad Harry
Ugly Harry
and swagger Harry
Violent Harry
and introspective Harry
Romantic and evil
caring and selfish
I get drunk to forget everything
life
money
cares
desires
needs
duty
I write about ten ************* poems a day
not because I'm prolific
or inspired
not because I'm deep
or smart
or romantic
I write because it stems the tide of suicidal thoughts
which barrage my inactive mind
like cannon *****
and I've got great ***** of fire
rushing the pace of every word I spit
but I'm afraid of my own genetic cowardice
From grandfather to father to son
it runs through my veins like people and bulls
I'm drunk tonight
I'll be drunk tomorrow
and what the hell do you care?
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
Throw me out of a moving car
After a long night at the bar, come on
Dangle myself out a speeding car
Death is near but I’m too far gone
Let’s have a good time
We can never die
Come on
Get me in to the car
To the moon and past the stars
Come on
Pull away in a stolen car
I forget how did this all start?
Go for a joy ride
This is the good life come on
Once upon a time
Under the moonlight
On a summers night
She was being real shy
And then she took a bite
And her eyes met mine
Were skating on thin ice
We higher than a kite
No such thing as a good bye
Let’s go for a ride
It’s a joy ride
Let’s enjoy tonight
Like it’s the end of our lives
Come on
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
Brownwood, Texas is the place
Where we go to give game chase
Deer, Turkey, Dove or Quail
That’s where we track them on the trail
From a ground blind or a tree
This is where we feel most free
Drinking whiskey by firelight
Or sometimes it’s Cold Coors Lite
Hot, Cold, wind or rain, we don’t care
To fill our tag is our prayer
Rifle, Shot gun or Bow
To fill our freezer, with, bird, buck or doe
Sometimes we go just to camp
In the morning it is damp
Horse licking dew off the tent
Sometimes this is how night is spent
Flashing lights and UFO’s
No one believes us but we know
Taking Picture’s in Bluebonnets in spring
Lots of Stories about everything
Driving across condemned bridges
Chasing Deer across Fences
Busting bottles on the Sign
Driving through the River that winds
Multiple Jeeps, wheelers, Trucks of all Kinds
But Polaris Ranger is head of the line
When it comes to getting around
Smoothest ride on the ground
Kids, chase rabbits, and lizards galore
Collecting bones, climbing trees and more
20 years on this lease
Sometimes it is good for Peace
Of the soul and of the mind
A great place to escape the grind
Miles, Years, Family and Friends
It has paid in dividends
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
He wore a wife beater.
Which hung on him more like a to do list-
Than his clothing choice for the day.
His choice of beverage of the night was Coors Light.
Twenty four of them.
Although it would be hard to argue that something else would have been in his hand
Had it too been on sale at 2 for $20.
His math skills were heightened on Fridays.
On the weekend he was somewhat of a savant.
Dividing dollars by can volume to determine.
His most frugal choice.
As he moseyed to his car,
Hips struggling to hold his
Tattered sweatpants,
One wondered whether it too ran on alcohol.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC
I'm sitting here,
at my regular table
and in through the door,
waddles a stream of gluttony
bodies like melting planets
and a look which falls somewhere
between pride and entitlement
is plastered on their sweaty bovine faces
they come into an area
graze while the grass is good
and slowly meander elsewhere
chewing the cud the whole while
like an old trail hand
chews a thick *** of tobacco
these people
who don't know the meaning
of living a lean life
what do they do?
besides propagating fast food franchises
and big and tall clothing stores
what do they do?
they sit in their cubicles doing the same
mindless
mundane
pointless
task for eight hours
with lunch and breaks
and then they drag themselves back home
to the herd
and sit down in their puffy couches
in front of the T.V.
with a microwaved meal
staining their beat up wife beaters
before they fall asleep
on the couch
their mouths propped open
drooling
with a still half full
can of coors light
balanced precariously
between their cottage cheese thighs
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
on sunday mornings we eat frozen waffles and
wash our faces with stale coors light and the tears
of our mamas that we kept in plastic water bottles from
the time when they cried cause their babies were leaving
for the first time and we wait and we wait for the day to be
over so that we can feel like we’re alive again.
pray for us. pray for sunshine. pray for freedom.
-d.k.
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 2:41 AM UTC
THE ALLAN FAMILY STORY, BRIAN’S A YOUNG DUDE
YOUNG DUDES ARE PEOPLE WHO GO TO NIGHTCLUBS AND PARTY
AND THEY HAVE A LOT OF FUN, YEAH, THEY ARE CLASSED AS YOUNG ADULTS
BUT I PREFER TO CALL TWEENS KIDS, BACK IN THOSE DAYS, AND AS SOON
AS THEY TURNED 13 AND INTO *** AND MUSIC, THEY ARE YOUNG DUDES
AND THEN THEY STAY YOUNG DUDES, TILL THEY ARE 25, BUT SOMETIMES
IT NEEDS TO GET OUT THERE, YOU SEE, MY FAMILY BECAUSE
NO I DON’T TAKE DRUGS, BUT I LIKE TO PARTY, YOUNG DUDE BEHAVIOUR
I LIKE TO LISTEN TO PROPER MUSIC, YOUNG DUDE BEHAVIOUR
GOING ON THE COMPUTER, TO PLAY MUSIC YOUNG DUDE BEHAVIOUR
BUT COMPUTER GAMES IS FOR THE KIDS, I KNOW KIDS ARE YOUNGER THAN ME
BUT I ALWAYS SAY A YOUNG DUDE WILL GO OUT AND PARTY HARDY
YA KNOW, I HATE BEING TREATED LIKE A KID, CAUSE I LIKE HEAVY METAL
I HATE BEING TREATED LIKE AN OLDIE EITHER, ONLY BECAUSE, I AM NOT OLD
BUT I HATE WHEN PEOPLE CONTRIDICT ME
MY VERSION OF A YOUNG DUDE IS BETTER, BECAUSE THEY DO PLAY MUSIC
AND THEY DO, GO OUT TO PARTY, IN NIGHTCLUBS
I THOUGHT MY MATES AND MY BROTHER AND DAD UNDERSTOOD THIS
I THINK LOOKING AND THINKING LIKE A YOUNG DUDE IS GOOD FOR ANY MIDDLEAGED PERSON
I DON’T WANT TO BE TREATED LIKE AN OLD FOGIE WHO WANTS TO DIE
I AM A YOUNG DUDE, AND I KNOW THE KIDS ARE SAYING THEY ARE YOUNG
WELL, YES, I NEED TO EXPLAIN MY VERSION OF A YOUNG DUDE
I THOUGHT PEOPLE KNEW WHAT I MEANT WHEN I SAID I WAS A YOUNG DUDE
BUT I MAKES ME ANGRY, I WANT TO LISTEN TO THE COORS
I WANT TO LISTEN TO HEAVY METAL, LIKE A REAL YOUNG DUDE
I DON’T WANT DAD TELLING ME TO BE A KID, NEH I WILL SAY
I LIKE WHAT I AM DOING ON YOUTUBE, AND IF THAT MAKES ME A WOOSEY
I GUESS I AM A WOOSEY, BUT I AM NOT A WOOSEY, I AM A COOL YOUNG DUDE
YOU SEE, I HAVE GROUPS LIKE MANS KID FIXES UP TO THE MEN, I AM NOT THAT, **** OFF ANYONE WHO THINKS I AM
A LADIES KID, WELL, I LIKE THAT A BIT, BUT I HATE THE SMOTHERING IT BRINGS
AN ADULT, NOT SHY TO GO TO BED, NOT ME, I SLEEP ON THE COUCH
A YOUNG DUDE BEING CREATIVE, PARTYING LISTENING TO MUSIC, THAT IS ME TO A TEE
MY YOUNG DUDE IS A STRUGGLING BUDDHIST ARTIST AND WRITER AND YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER
WHO LOVES TO PARTY
I PREFER MY YOUNG DUDE, MORE COOLER FOR ME TO PORTRAY
I HATE KIDS THINKING I AM CRAMPING THEIR STYLE
TEASE YOUR PARENTS, CAUSE I AM A COOL PERSON, BUDDY
I AM A YOUNG DUDE AND PROUD OF IT
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC
ranked out ****
on drugs
lovin lady hugs hatin bugs
cuz
I smash em
like a hammer nailin
combine bailin
fire line trailin cuz I be sailin
distant shores
sunblocked pores
drinkin Coors
rollin with the movers
do her
then leave in the compost
heave her on the fence post
go coast to coast
roast that ***
like the muthafukkin
*** roast
almost coasted into the trap line
caught my behind
shot em from the tree line
try to unwind
blowin my mind
try to find
some kind
buds on the street
beatin calloused feet
greetin hip grannies
with my fly *** beats
eatin meat
shooting to killa
thrilla the hunt
act like Ted Nugent
‘cept I still be shootin drunk
listenin to funk
***** trunk honey smells bunk
and I roll out --
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
March and April are the time
when crappie bite and winds chime
Cedar Creek, Prince's dock
it's the spot do not mock
Years of trees submerged there
fishing rods used by the pair
minnow on one jig on the other
catching crappie is never a bother
Medium shiner and red and chartreuse skirt
cast em out wait for the ****
cold Coors lite in the fridge
if not biting here, let’s try Caney bridge
Or maybe a dock across the way
down on the dam at the end of the day
but usually the dock will do just fine
under lights at dark or in sunshine
Fill the basket with white and black
watch the cork, reel the slack
when it bobs, set the hook
paperlip slab, fillet and cook
Electric knife and old butcher block
cleaning fish around the clock
cornmeal, seasoning and fillets
a great dinner at the end of the day
Shake in a sack and toss in hot oil
toss in some hushpuppies' watch it roil.
eating on the deck with family and friends
our bellies full, the day ends
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
there's a ringing in my ears that
sounds like the feed trucks roaring down 50
and broken country music coming through
an ancient stereo, sounds like the way your
thick palms look when they pull a cap off a Coors
bottle, and that side eye you give, why do you keep looking at me like that?
Like what? As if my looks were incendiary glares and not photographs, I'm only taking you in, not taking you out. Like what? Hasn't anyone ever traced your lips or wondered if God built you out of brick? Laid silk over your harsh corners and sanded you down with a smile--why am I looking at you like that?
sounds like I put myself here and effectively took myself
out, sounds like you're one of kind and so different
and i've never felt this way
but I've heard all of those--
he's not waiting but i am, maybe for some kind of epiphany,
some kind of insurgent thought--an outpouring of light in the
rooms he thinks are lit, i wish I could light candles down his
tenebrous hallways, hang lanterns in the crook of his elbow,
make sure that the shadows only ever follow at a distance
but I can't assuage the feelings you haven't found, the fleeting
thoughts you ignore, I can't smelt the ore from your blood or
even pull a
splinter from
your palm.
He told me once he was in no hurry, no rush. But I've felt like i'm waiting on him, how strange, he'd probably say. Probably tell me
at least once more how much sense I don't make--but I tell myself that only a few people beat for me, run the tracks at the same speed--
that my explanations are enough for every other part of myself
and trying to explain that I am many, that I hang fire and break beds with prayer is like trying to describe colors;
warm, but not bright. Rich, hearty, elegant. -- Untitled. 1994. Oil on canvas.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 10:21 PM UTC
Sitting around stories told
Talking about days of old
Hunting, fishing and good times
Busting bottles. Stealing signs
Starry night is made of gold
Warm Campfires and Coors lite
Makes for a fabulous night
Crispy Fritos and bean dip
Great ideas and good tips
All relaxed, no ones up tight
Pack of coyotes begin to sing
Who knows what the dark night might bring
My wife gives me a sly wink
Mountains blue, I get a drink
feel just like a sitting king
Shining stars in the night sky
Satellites that fast fly by
Meteorites trailing fast
They just never ever last
Hell of a time that's no lie
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
I said
i like the smell of whiskey
and the whole cabin was filled
with puerto ricans and chile pepper
seeds scattered on the floor, a hundred
pots lined up on the stove with rouxs
and sweet syrups, masa mixed with
pork broth, shortening and garlic
the men lining the porch in
sunglasses and blue wranglers
going on about the rig or Virginia
or Hurricane Matthew--
what is it?
about running away?
I thought;
time passes so fast
I've clipped pieces from the past, snapshots i've unknowingly gathered
Uncle Dude three sheets out, standing in the kitchen
after you'd been drinking all day, your mom reminiscing in the corner
with tired eyes and stained fingers from wine,raisins, condensed milk,
consoling a drunk neighbor, (Florida State won earlier)
through the screen while you reclined in the sun or
the rotating image of your heels crunching through the
long morning grass.
I'd been sustained on quiche that needed no seasoning,
coffee creamer, cherry pie and the feeling of slipping bare
feet into boots, on quiet, on
dark forearms and white biceps
the print of a little bird ring,
dark, brittle nights that smelled like cigars and Coors--
I've been trying to talk to God
all weekend but I think he's gone.
I think I'm alone.
I think I've run away.
I'm home, but there's nobody here.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
Red wine and Coors Light
Reminds me of a time
Where happiness was scarce and unknown
A time where in a group I still felt alone
Empty cans and bottles scattered our floor
Bitter words, sour smell added to the wicked allure
Yells and fists became a everyday routine
Tears hidden as I choked on my screams
Mama favored the wine the way it helped relive her pain
He favored beer the way it made reality fade
I suppose sometimes the haze may help to unwind
As long as you don't abuse it all the time
Some just can't stop when they feel the buzz, can't resist the pull
But continue to drink even when full
My own worse enemy were my little feet and puny hands
Not strong enough to save her from that wicked man
So small and unable to help
Can't imagine the pain I felt
Grew strong and escaped the darkness and pain
Left her there with the man who she refused to blame
If you ever loved me
You'd set the devil free
But she couldn't
My heart knew she wouldn't
Stayed with him for years
Through all the tears
Always thinking of his happiness, never mine
That's what I remember when I see red wine and coors light
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
12 am, white summer night
Abandoned playground, warm Coors Light
I say, *"I'm so nervous, let's play like this
Have some fun on the swings or slide."*
You say, *"Are you not ready? I've already
wasted too much time."*
I guess it's funny, telling lies
Because I liked you and you liked to be liked
He gave me catnip at **** price
The ******* ****** I thought
Everything was alright
He said, "Don't get older, don't get cruel"
Like he had the power to
**** his ***** *** that's not cool
But I got a bottle and a few
Sneak out or play nice
My basement is less entertaining
Than walking the night
Sneak out or play nice
You can try to follow me out if you'd like
Sneak out or play nice
I went with my best friend the first two times
Sneak out or play nice
I'm embarrassed to say we never felt quite like those nights again
It must be something that flees as soon as it's missed
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 2:10 AM UTC
around the time Hurricane Matthew was
tearing through Florida, it was 10:34pm in
Divide--
A Coors bottle pressed into your beard,
settled on your bottom lip in contemplation
a boyish reverie spun between us when you spoke
softly relaying the genealogy of the Hatfields & Mccoys,
Ole Ran'l, Devil Anse piping in, your accent seeps through
real Midwestern like--stops when you're on about prayer
trees and La Llorona
But I was deeply introspective,
heavily burdened by a Randy Travis song
how earlier that morning your fingers
had found their way around my hips--
mine around your waistband, down your spine
a helpless explorer driven across the mainland
transversing shoulder blades, fascinated by chains
around your neck, nooses, playthings or jewelry
how around 3 am your gravely voice sought me
out across a sea of torrid thoughts to ask if I was cold
yes. probably.
and when we start the decline, tripping lazily over moss clumps
dead grass, fallen trees, I storm and plow ahead because
when in doubt, race yourself.
Sheltered by the truck gate,
you've come up ahead and stand
in front of me, unassuming
both hands complacent--
so I ask you to kiss me
and there's a fiddle playin'
in my ears, a highway of
country streamin' through
my veins, or,
something
like that.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
Waste the way that it tastes as it rolls off the filter
tip
Light off the night as it riles up our lower lives like pure
reptile brains
Do moths fly towards lightning bugs like
candles?
Does a drug overdose vision of God
turn the addict into a messiah
Or is it just another try at seeing the light
for the first time right overcoming might
Like a sight for sore eyes sick to my stomach
every **** morning
Two Coors Lights and the rain is pouring
it's **** cold in this Texas town
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 1:13 AM UTC
Saturday 29
His house.
Filled not only with the people that I love
but all the people that I despise the most
The snap backs, the Coors, the drunken barbies
I chug the ***** and laugh at their stupidity
Cigarette number 1.2&3 at once
on the porch
and she gets there
pulls out her white powder
her lines in the kitchen
He yells, he wants to fight her
I don't want to stop him but I do
Is it terrible to think she'd be better off dead?
The smell of lust consumes me
as the air of a lost love surrounds me
He pulls me in
kissing him on drunken nights seems to become a trend
The friend that I can't lust for calls for me
he needs me
but I can't be there
Eventually I tear myself away
I curl up with the friend again
Giving him hope
in an impossible daydream
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC