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Misha Kroon Jun 2018
It's been one of those days,
Where I don't quite feel
Human.
Those days where my brain is elsewhere.

Like it's in the supermarket,  
And my bodies woken up in the car
Almost sure where it is.

Like I've just sat down,
And my brain's not sure where to sit.

Like I've lost track of how many drinks I've had,
But I can tell you I've been drunk 4 nights this week.
Listen I'm drunk af and I've been trying to work out how to explain the days where my brain is a little dissociative to someone that doesn't know it.
laura Jun 2018
laugh at the spring
of an innermost bud
sweep into drunkenness
an insensitive buzz
couch surfing hymns

state to state, you in your
least excellent of clothes
still steals the breath away
from the shiniest worn by most
best friends for life, safe from him
Arianna Dec 2018
Breathing deeply
Of the heat
Rising
In tidal rushes
From the velvet of
Your skin
Cascading
Over mine,
Entireties
Enveloping
Melting, us together,
Suspended in this
Pulsing plane
Of pleasure and pain,
As
The warmth of wine
Hits the blood
Wherein
La chaleur de nous-mêmes
Indistinguishable

HEART

Reunites
Inside-outside­
At once,
At one
In a carnal


SYMPOSIUM


Pomegranate cheeks
Pressed, rouge
Into wine,
Flowing
Ambrosia
Of sweat,
Honey,
And the Hunger
Of



TIME



Grapes bursting
Forth from vines
Of bordeaux kisses
Devoured,
Plucked ravenously
With tongues,
Flowing
In leaf-winged abundance
Over humming, desiring
Stomachs
Bursting with
Crimson cabernet
And the drunkenness of roses,
Blooming scarlet
And savage
Between thighs, and
Strewn back
Up the ripening
Raspberry vines
Now entwining,
All-compelling,
.
.
.
.
                                               T                                                       
                    R                                                  

A                         ­         I          
                              N                  M  ­  
N                                                
                     G.....         R
                    S                              ­                          
                     O
                                                     F                                                          ­  
               .
               .
               .
               .
Between skins,
Garlands
Of laurel caresses
Woven
‘Round necks,
Braided through shady
Willow tresses
By rose-stained
Fingertips
Hovering

D
O
W
N

To alight
Upon strawberry lips:
Inhaling
Hymns
From the depths beneath them:
Lush,
Flowing
Harmonies of


FEELING


Echoing,
As the tambourines
Chime louder
In breaths
Amidst the swaying
Of hips and

IMMOLATING

Free of form,
The dance



REVERBERATING



In the ardor
Of souls bared
Whole.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4qePY2Wdss
Mak Jul 2014
The room was silent. The only sound to be heard was the slow, steady dripping from my mother’s IV.      

“What do you mean, you’re dying?”

Multiple Sclerosis was, in short, a ***** of a disease. Somewhere along the span of my mother's 35 short years on this planet, her immune system made a giant mistake. For uncertain reasons, her body began to attack nerve cells, severely affecting her brain's processing ability and mobility. The only medication that had ever subdued the symptoms was beginning to **** her.

“It isn’t an immediate thing, Makayla. I still have plenty of time.”

Turning away from my mother, I wiped tears from my eyes. There was no way in **** I was going to let my family see me cry. Absolutely no way. This was a joke. My mom was not going to die.

“Kayla, baby, talk to us. It’s okay.”

With a deep breath, I forced a smile, as I often did, and blinked away all traces of tears from my gray eyes. Turning around to meet my parents’ worried expressions, I simply nodded.

“How long?”

The question came out as more of a statement than a question. The morbid implication of those two short words spoke worlds louder than any words I could muster.

“5 years, at the absolute worst.”

At that, I stood, and left. I ran, and ran, and ran. I ran until my lungs hurt, and then kept running. But no matter where or how fast I went, I knew I could not escape the horrible reality of the matter.

The woman who gave me life was losing hers.

I was always the type of person who knew how to talk my way out of any situation.

And this time, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

There’s no sweet-talking death.

And with that, I began to accept her demise, and my defeat.

///

The first sip burned my esophagus, and I felt the blaze continue to my stomach, where it left a lasting warmth. I coughed a little, as the hazy feeling of drunkenness set in, setting my head spinning and my insides ablaze.

The past two months (52 days, 4 hours, and 30-something seconds) were a continuous downward spiral into a constant intoxicated state. Instead of addressing my feelings in the endless sea of counseling sessions and semi-sympathetic family therapy hours, I isolated myself. When my mother asked how I was, my reply remained the usual, “Doing great, mom.”

I was not, in fact, doing great. The alcohol wrapped itself into me, braided itself within my better sense, and I began to let myself fall apart. The wall I so often hid behind, the wall of perfection, of cool, was crumbling. Short, yet deep cuts lined my thighs, just high enough to be hidden by the hem of my shorts.

My mother had the opportunity to save her own life. Russian research had found a possible cure for the disease that had been plaguing her very existence. 3 weeks of chemotherapy, followed by a few months of intensive care, and she would be normal once again.

My mother denied the treatment.

“Too much money,” she said.

“Too inconvenient,” she said.

Compared to the life of my mother, no amount of money nor convenience mattered.

I was furious.

I was drunk.

///

My mind swam, speech slurred, fingers trembled.

My phone sat in front of me, propped up on a gray tissue box, which had been halfway expended due to that night’s waterworks. The Coca-Cola can which held my ***/coke concoction was long past empty. I was drunk, and screaming words like ‘sorry’ and ‘doesn’t deserve this’ into a pillow. I knew my mother deserved to live. Compared to me, she was a saint. I felt empty and pathetic. I deserved to die.

I convinced myself that maybe if I did something extreme, she would value her own life more than she did.

I held tightly onto the railing of my house’s only set of stairs, as I attempted to keep my balance. I walked drunkenly to the medicine cabinet, careful not to make noise and wake my parents. I grabbed as many pill bottles as I could carry.

Exactly 41 pills of assorted shapes, sizes, and colors sat in lines on my bed. Small to large, rainbow order. The comfort of organization wasn’t helping this time. I wanted to die.

Before starting my buffet of medication, my phone lit up. One new text.

“I know you were feeling upset earlier, and I just wanted to remind you that you are special. You matter.” I instantly felt even ******* for what I was about to do.

I laid down in bed, beginning to drown in my own tears, and let myself fall asleep.

Neither I nor my mother would be dying tonight.
Alicia Dunn Apr 5
All of the distaste
For the life of disgrace

An unloving mother,
One helpless little brother

An abusing father
The eldest daughter

The poor family falls
As the devil calls

We’re falling down
Here is your crown

You’re the queen of despair
The world so unfair

you lock your lips
As you cut your hips

Your blood will stain
As your tears rain

Protecting your little brother
As the hits go to you, and your mother

Drunkenness takes your father
You tell yourself you’re not his daughter

Stuck in this rut
All you can do is cut

But life tries to make you drown
As the bath water begins to surround

One breath, two breath, three breath, four
Sadly your lungs don’t work anymore
One friend told me this was her life, now she is doing much better, I wish she hadn’t moved away but this sadly was her life for 8 years of her life
Delaney Feb 4
she left.
perhaps not on her own accord.
she did come back,
but she came for the money.
not us.
she got drunk.
  and smoked.
and when she hurt me,
I apologized.
when we asked her to stop
the drunkenness.
...to stop the pain
nothing.
she loved us.
but were we ever enough for her?
were we worth more than the alcohol?
the money?

-I learned my worth and it shows
Mar Apr 2018
Where were we when we last left off?
I think I was telling you how much I loved you.
Then you disappeared off the face of the earth,
And I never got closure.
You were the first person I truly loved,
The first I ever saw myself being with,
For a long time.
I loved you even in your drunkenness,
Even when you cursed at me,
And degraded yourself before my eyes.
Do you remember the summer of 2017?
You came to me (drunk),
Wanting advice.
I became your friend,
And weeks later,
As I’d hoped,
We became something more.
Do you remember September 21st?
How we stayed up all night talking?
How you called me on your phone,
And allowed me so much time
For me to ask you to be mine?
And December 2nd,
When we first truly met,
I was very much in love
As you held my hand,
And we walked through New York City
In the cold.
You gave me the best kiss I’ve ever had,
You gave me passion.
You were a spark in my life,
But you went out
And I never got closure.
This is my closure.
I loved you.
You might have loved me.
I’ll never know.
One of the best relationships I’ve ever had abruptly ended and I keep subconsciously thinking about it. RGB, if you’re somehow reading this... I’m sorry. But I'm in a happier place, now.
“It really sickens me that you can’t take this life straight,” she said.

Her eyes were aglow with a pink halo of hatred fire that smote her compassion. She reached for her coat and wrenched the cheap motel room door open. It made a small dull thud as it hit the brittle plaster wall. (I hoped my deposit would cover the damage.)

She was one surreal moment’s breath away from leaving me there for good.

“You’re a lonely old man because you’re a selfish old *******,” she said.

She disappeared down the walkway like some direful wraith caught in the night wind. The curt sound of her red highheeled shoes clicking the worn concrete. The inexplicable proof of her existence ferried away in a sea of incandescent tail lights that shown from the highway.  

Maybe she was right. Maybe I can’t take this life straight and never hope to. And, maybe I am selfish. But, I’m only selfish because I’m so **** lonely all the time. That’s the ***** of it. Life is a never-ending toilet bowl flush of selfishness, drunkenness, *****, and utter loneliness.

It took me too many years to figure out that the problem wasn’t her, or even with other people for that matter, it was with me.

It’s only when we figure ourselves out that we realize that we’ve been doing a lot of things wrong with our lives. Listening to the wrong voices in our heads. Taking the wrong advice from strangers. Avoiding the admonitions of those who really love you. These things happen all the time. None of us has the answers. I don’t know anything.

In fact, after all the years I spent searching for meaning in academia perusing dusty libraries and old bookstores for that gem of knowledge, I can tell you definitively that only ignorance is bliss. That it’s even true when it comes to dating. The less you think you know the better you are.

I guess this is where the train stops for me. Time to get off. Try something else. Take to the woods and grow a manly neck-beard like Thoreau did in Walden. Adhere to the early American philosophy of rugged individualism and all that. Too soon would I realize that life isn’t about solitude, or a separation from others; rather it’s about the connections we make. Solid connections.

The hedonistic Epicurus tells us to live a life of pleasure through the temperance of desire, and warns us not to seek what is inappropriate for us mortals, but to enjoy our mortal needs.

I do not know if Epicurus ever found a mate, a friendship, or even a partner to share his most intimate thoughts with besides his raucous audience, but I do know he died in isolation away from society. I’ve never been a hedonist. I’m far too traditional for all that.

My sordid love life is more akin to Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the tragic story of Echo and Narcissus.

I’ve been Narcissus for too many years to count and what’s worse I was in oblivion. For too long have I been unto myself. Admiring only myself. The time has come to choose. Either die like Narcissus or live and love with Écho.

I’d like to walk in the sunlight, drink from the cool springs, and with a Shakespearian passion bask in it’s eternal glow and live inside the warm,  but ever ethereal, love of another’s heart.

To love another with such Shakespearian passion would lead me to realize that the only thing my love can save is myself. And, all the time this duality would haunt me—to unequivocally know that without the tenderness of Echo in one’s life there is only the vain Narcissus.

For now you know the duality, that is also the tragedy, of this man. Let that echo in your ears and see if it does not ring with the truth of all men.
Yanamari Aug 2018
Drunk.
On the thoughts occupying my mind,
Drunk.
On the preoccupations playing in front of my eyes,
Drunk.

Floating in my drunkenness...
My only wish
Does not exist.
Because,
Floating in the drunkenness of my pain has
Taken my awareness away.
Drunk.
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
I saw the most intelligent minds of my generation in front of me
     roar and speak their dynamo star speeches,
Dragging themselves to the top of academics working like
     supernatural machines through the poverty of night,
     fixing the tattered paper,
studied the cosmos vibrating and vomiting disgorged facts
     their blue and white skirts blinking across the
     school streets, contemplating ancient tragedies,
     publishing endless magnificent papers,
     about Shakespearean tragedies,
     among the scholars of war.
They sank all night into a their bleak brain of brilliance,
     riding trains to dusk of Sydney and chained
     themselves to their work.
But they floated in and sat through without protesting,
     listening to the hydrogen documentaries until
     the synagogue past three.
Memories of and anecdotes of school trail behind conversations of
     impulse and whatever hazy.
The shuddering noise the wheels, in drunkenness of the seventy
     hours jumping up and down of wondering where
     to go next, the empty museums remain free.
They meet boys yacketyakking, screaming, jumping down off roofs
     drinking, but they go anyway, with no broken hearts
     and lit cigarettes together in our cars at night,
     disappearing into the small town in the rain,
     lounged hungry through the scattered city.
These intellects who vanished into their trembling rooms, and
     shrieked in who let themselves hiccup trying to laugh
     but ended up sobbing to the dark haired ***** ******* the
     Korean drama.
Idle as they sat on their bed, when their intellectual thread is
     shrewd optimum, they lost heir boy of three weeks
     because some sweetheart forgot to hand him
     a packet of cigarettes.
The million girls who went to my school were red eyed in the
     morning, but prepared enough to waitress Sunday
     afternoons, the girls would have their night cars, and
     I would have poems and catch a quick ****** of the sun,
     go to empty lot diners at Subway and movie houses
     with vast sordid films, hung out in basements open to
     nostalgic free lemonade and woke themselves up
     the next morning.
Inspired by Ginsberg's The Howl
Travis Green Apr 18
You are more than the trickling tears that
fall down your slippery cheeks,
the depths of darkness and drunkenness,
depths of bitter beats and blackened
seas, the salty waves spinning inside
your soul trying to diminish your existence.
You are more than the solitary nights
sitting behind closed doors, sinking inside,
shifting in time, drifting in the distance,
crazed cigarettes wedged between your
fingers, the cloudy smoke curling into
crimson chambers.  You are more than
disconnection, surrounded by emptiness
and dried diction, diminishing chemistry,
unfinished physics, seeping into stained
kingdoms.  You are more than your
existence.  Take a closer look within your
dimension and realize the power that you
possess inside.  Embrace the shimmering
light that shines in your eyesight,
the captivating clouds that flow among
your masterpiece, bathing in your iridescence.
You are more than it all.  You are somebody.
Eureka Merton Aug 2018
He is the sweet fragrance of a rose,
Smelt everywhere all the time
He is the Jasmine Breath
whose source cannot be found

I was a child...Searching for Him,
searching for this Source...
This intoxicating source of Love
I am pulled inside by its everpresent aroma

I swear this is what Infinity smells like, before it is birthed into form!

I could not find Him,
The source of my drunkenness
So I sat, defeated
With tears of sorrow and longing.

When The drop of love hit the ocean within,
Without warning, I heard a knock at my heart door
When I opened it
He said Hello!

all creation became a reflection
of the Flower of my Longing-
And the Source -
my Self
I lie in bed alone tonight,
because, once again
you've passed out drunk
on the couch.

I'm in my mind alone tonight,
because, unlike you
I don't allow myself
to opt out.

The truth is,
I was not being entirely truthful
when you asked
if something else was wrong
when we had our little spat

The truth is,
I crumbled
when you said
"I know the remedy"
and poured yourself another drink.

The truth is,
if you throw something across the room, out of anger
I'm going to cry (cause and effect).

The truth is,
I thought you would know this
by now.

This path in my brain
has deep grooves.

When, from drunkenness
sprouts anger
my body instinctively moves.

I'm alone tonight,
even though you've been here
the whole time.
Some nights will be hard
Semihten5 Sep 2018
now I must leave myself
to my deep emptines
I will run away to be misunderstood
the one place here

maybe I should release drunkenness
to forget for a moment

where impasse my ends
I have to ask
to my friend who knows short roads
ıt does not even look like his eyes of hope

how do I get out of trap
ıt  must be an end to my fear
somehow every dream ends is not it

nightmares are short time
you don't forget
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