"drunkingly" poems - Hello Poetry

Walking down main street, not worried about the rain, was John Carpenter. Sure, he had on his hat and coat, but he had not remembered to grab his umbrella. Luckily his sister had not been with him or else she would have had a fit. She was always talking about how he needed to bundle up more, he only got pneumonia twice year, and seemed to always have a cold. He didn't mind though. More often then not, a nice hot cup of coco, or brandy would clear his sinuses and he'd be fine. Today he did not have a cold and today he was walking down mainstream, letting the rain fall gently upon his face and shoulders. He passed the bar he so often frequented in his younger years, and saw a familiar face across the not so busy main street. He stopped then, rather suddenly, and slumped agaisnt the wall. My, it had been years since he had seen her. Years since he had talked to her. Looking across the street, through light traffic and light rains he remembered the other times he had looked upon her face. He remembered the last time he had done so while seeing her. They had woken up in bed, him before her as was usual. They had woken up to kisses and squeezes and the smell of cigarettes and brandy and parchment. Looking across the street he remembered everything about her, The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair. He remembered the way she squeezed him tight, tighter than any other girl. He remembered the way she laughed after they kissed and he remembered how it had ended. A shameful night in March, two years ago. Drunkingly, he laid his hand upon her. Not in the nice way, but in the way his step father used to unto him. He did it because she would not go to the store to pick up more brandy. That is why he hit her. It was not the first time, though. The first time he had been drunk as well and it had been because she talked back to him, the way he would to his step father. Now, you must understand, she gave him a second chance. She swore that if he were to every lay a hand on her ever again she would be gone. He swore to her that he would never again do so. He would lay off the brandy and he would be the man he should be. The man his real father was, before he died. He would be a husband and a lover and a healer and a man. He promised these things. Then, two months later, he hit her again. This was the last time. She followed through on her promise and he did not see her until that moment, right then, as he looked across the street. He thought he should go over to her and say hello. He though maybe he should cry at her knees, God knows he wanted to. He thought he should beg for her back. No, he had not gotten off the brandy, but that's only because she left. He would though. Oh God, he would. Just as John Carpenter had worked up enough courage to cross the street and talk to Mary Stein, The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair, a man emerged from the building and grasped her arm. And she huddled close to him and looked up at him in a trusting, loving way. The way she used to him. Not the way John's mother did his stepfather. Not the way Mary did the last time she looked at him. The strode, Mary and the Man, arm in arm up the sidewalk. Into a taxi, that sped away, up the street and away from John. Oh God, how he would quit the brandy.

0

Sep 3, 2013

Sep 3, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC

jeremy-duff

The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair.

Walking down main street, not worried about the rain, was John Carpenter. Sure, he had on his hat and coat, but he had not remembered to grab his umbrella. Luckily his sister had not been with him or else she would have had a fit. She was always talking about how he needed to bundle up more, he only got pneumonia twice year, and seemed to always have a cold. He didn't mind though. More often then not, a nice hot cup of coco, or brandy would clear his sinuses and he'd be fine. Today he did not have a cold and today he was walking down mainstream, letting the rain fall gently upon his face and shoulders. He passed the bar he so often frequented in his younger years, and saw a familiar face across the not so busy main street. He stopped then, rather suddenly, and slumped agaisnt the wall. My, it had been years since he had seen her. Years since he had talked to her. Looking across the street, through light traffic and light rains he remembered the other times he had looked upon her face. He remembered the last time he had done so while seeing her. They had woken up in bed, him before her as was usual. They had woken up to kisses and squeezes and the smell of cigarettes and brandy and parchment. Looking across the street he remembered everything about her, The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair. He remembered the way she squeezed him tight, tighter than any other girl. He remembered the way she laughed after they kissed and he remembered how it had ended. A shameful night in March, two years ago. Drunkingly, he laid his hand upon her. Not in the nice way, but in the way his step father used to unto him. He did it because she would not go to the store to pick up more brandy. That is why he hit her. It was not the first time, though. The first time he had been drunk as well and it had been because she talked back to him, the way he would to his step father. Now, you must understand, she gave him a second chance. She swore that if he were to every lay a hand on her ever again she would be gone. He swore to her that he would never again do so. He would lay off the brandy and he would be the man he should be. The man his real father was, before he died. He would be a husband and a lover and a healer and a man. He promised these things. Then, two months later, he hit her again. This was the last time. She followed through on her promise and he did not see her until that moment, right then, as he looked across the street. He thought he should go over to her and say hello. He though maybe he should cry at her knees, God knows he wanted to. He thought he should beg for her back. No, he had not gotten off the brandy, but that's only because she left. He would though. Oh God, he would. Just as John Carpenter had worked up enough courage to cross the street and talk to Mary Stein, The Girl With Flowers In Her Hair, a man emerged from the building and grasped her arm. And she huddled close to him and looked up at him in a trusting, loving way. The way she used to him. Not the way John's mother did his stepfather. Not the way Mary did the last time she looked at him. The strode, Mary and the Man, arm in arm up the sidewalk. Into a taxi, that sped away, up the street and away from John. Oh God, how he would quit the brandy.

29

My sad mentality Destroys my reality Annihilates my honesty All I have got is privacy Not a shed of sociality My life's complexity Against myself a conspiracy Emphasizes my stupidity Locks up my humanity Self pity is my speciality It seems a necessity Which confuses my phsychology And Leaves nothing I wanna be My life's history I have waited patiently To write in my corrupting diary For I am no deity If there was something godly I'd have been killed furiously That conclusion comes logically Though simultaneously I have lived happily My neurology I have kept in secrecy Cause with my souls delivery To the devils cookery They feasted immediately On my souls purity My life's mystery Won't be uncovered easily For I life silently In my ****** up fantasy Which left nothing I wanna be I have waited impatiently For others to grow up with me For without being remotely angelically I have behaved, we'll almost elderly Or I have tried to behave intelligently Never drunkingly And quite rarely Entirely freely On this I look quite positively For it has allowed me To stand against the waves unwaveringly Looking upon life much more detailedly Seeing more nuanced on life's complexity And for the ability to do this comfortably I must thank my family While I can say all the above truthfully There is plenty to say negatively For standing against the norm unrockingly Can at the best of times be quite lonely And most the time I looked desperately After those who floated by me oh so freely While looking so unfathomably Completely, worryingly, unanimously happily At a world driven by the greedy, Disgustingly, horrifying monsters of humanity This have tortured me existentially At times I have felt ****** up mentally But as time passed slowly Step by step I realized surprisingly That it has left me allmost exactly like I allways wanted to be.

0

Oct 15, 2018

Oct 15, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC

thom149c

I wanna be

My sad mentality Destroys my reality Annihilates my honesty All I have got is privacy Not a shed of sociality My life's complexity Against myself a conspiracy Emphasizes my stupidity Locks up my humanity Self pity is my speciality It seems a necessity Which confuses my phsychology And Leaves nothing I wanna be My life's history I have waited patiently To write in my corrupting diary For I am no deity If there was something godly I'd have been killed furiously That conclusion comes logically Though simultaneously I have lived happily My neurology I have kept in secrecy Cause with my souls delivery To the devils cookery They feasted immediately On my souls purity My life's mystery Won't be uncovered easily For I life silently In my ****** up fantasy Which left nothing I wanna be I have waited impatiently For others to grow up with me For without being remotely angelically I have behaved, we'll almost elderly Or I have tried to behave intelligently Never drunkingly And quite rarely Entirely freely On this I look quite positively For it has allowed me To stand against the waves unwaveringly Looking upon life much more detailedly Seeing more nuanced on life's complexity And for the ability to do this comfortably I must thank my family While I can say all the above truthfully There is plenty to say negatively For standing against the norm unrockingly Can at the best of times be quite lonely And most the time I looked desperately After those who floated by me oh so freely While looking so unfathomably Completely, worryingly, unanimously happily At a world driven by the greedy, Disgustingly, horrifying monsters of humanity This have tortured me existentially At times I have felt ****** up mentally But as time passed slowly Step by step I realized surprisingly That it has left me allmost exactly like I allways wanted to be.

63

You made me hate my blonde hair. I heard the natives say hair is an extension of the soul Mine flows like a silk river spilling over my shoulders and trickling down my back tenderly. Regularly I pile it on my crown in a petite bun that swirls like the shell of a stubborn hermit crab Or braid it and am suddenly Heidi of the Alps, in the eyes of my mother at least, and can scale any mountain. Apollo and Helios command rays be cast through so it glows as would soft fields of golden prairie grass, a meadow of protection for the baby blue butterflies I so adore. You made me hate my blonde hair. It fell around your face when we kissed under the stars A curtain shielding us from bleak mortality for a moment, formed by my mighty branches lazily swaying in our exhilarated breaths. I love to pretend I'm a weeping willow, my favorite, when playing with my sisters' children Who lay giggling uncontrollably while my long, slender golden foliage wisps around their faces, teasing them into drunkingly reaching up Playfully tangling their infant hands whose little tugs could never hurt. It is truly a blessing to shepherd such pure joy to new souls. You made me hate my blonde hair. The golden blanket that adheres to my cheeks between sobs and dries my tears, That is brightened by sun kisses that stain uneven highlights; It seems as my soul becomes lighter, my hair follows suit. You vehemently expressed my utter perfection beautiful, selfless, true. To myself I thought, Finally! Someone to share this soul with! But you have a thing about blondes... You made me hate my blonde hair.

0

Nov 25, 2017

Nov 25, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC

mountain_bee

You made me hate my blonde hair

You made me hate my blonde hair. I heard the natives say hair is an extension of the soul Mine flows like a silk river spilling over my shoulders and trickling down my back tenderly. Regularly I pile it on my crown in a petite bun that swirls like the shell of a stubborn hermit crab Or braid it and am suddenly Heidi of the Alps, in the eyes of my mother at least, and can scale any mountain. Apollo and Helios command rays be cast through so it glows as would soft fields of golden prairie grass, a meadow of protection for the baby blue butterflies I so adore. You made me hate my blonde hair. It fell around your face when we kissed under the stars A curtain shielding us from bleak mortality for a moment, formed by my mighty branches lazily swaying in our exhilarated breaths. I love to pretend I'm a weeping willow, my favorite, when playing with my sisters' children Who lay giggling uncontrollably while my long, slender golden foliage wisps around their faces, teasing them into drunkingly reaching up Playfully tangling their infant hands whose little tugs could never hurt. It is truly a blessing to shepherd such pure joy to new souls. You made me hate my blonde hair. The golden blanket that adheres to my cheeks between sobs and dries my tears, That is brightened by sun kisses that stain uneven highlights; It seems as my soul becomes lighter, my hair follows suit. You vehemently expressed my utter perfection beautiful, selfless, true. To myself I thought, Finally! Someone to share this soul with! But you have a thing about blondes... You made me hate my blonde hair.

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