"inebriated" poems
Water lilies, libidinous lover boys, on the sly
circles her naked body, impertinently
while she unaware of this, swim and play
in her water-crazy, noisy country girl self
in this enclosure of ***** pines wildly in bloom,
She's happy for being shielded from prying looks
of rowdy village boys, adept in disrobing her with their eyes
Enamored, the lilies, white, blue and purple
inebriated all, by drinking the nubile beauty
limitless all along,under the level of water
and above, breached all the reserves,
ahamelessly sevoured her saucy proximity
til she left when the dusk, shed saffron all over.
Yet in her innocence she would think,
"Poor darlings,how much did they suffer, as I
splashed and broke the calm of the pond all evening"
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
I’ve been reading a bit about positivity, this past hour.
I have been trying to project what I’ve read, mentally, in scenarios where I’m under stress to see how things work out.
I couldn’t make peace with the fact that sometimes letting go and keeping quiet is the best course of action.
That sometimes, just sometimes, shutting up and letting things happen is the only way to get over a bad situation.
The fallout can be dealt with. The one percent of our animal nature within helps us rebuild every time.
I can feel an uneasiness settling, making its home in the center of my being.
Writhing in malcontent and uneven distaste, counterbalanced hatred for this feeling I’m riddled with. Where is the good in all this?
Is that what forgiveness is? Swallowing the bitter pill? Turning a new leaf?
Among other euphemisms for being a **** up.
Something that’s very hard to do.
Two minds too blind to make themselves up. Nothing is accomplished in confusion.
One kills while the other cries.
Despair and hope side by side, waiting for one to rise and the other to fall.
Positivity is elastic, it can be stretched to fit over what you deem right.
It can be mistaken for a rush of energy, a thirst for life, a sense of achievement, an inebriated night.
All the while festering, brooding, decaying inside, a heart of sadness, that once did smile.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:13 AM UTC
After dark, energies flow in manners that pleases them most
braided together in lust, two king cobras were seen spiraling up
when darkness like a camouflage sets in thickly around,you're
the marijuana of my mind, seeking far horizons of pleasure.
I willingly seek oblivion, when pink pointed goosebumps
like tarantula's love bites, results of mating time cruelty
infest all over my body's landscape, signatures of ecstasy.
I feel your lips become, moist, soft, honey from each drips
never enough,for me, is it possible to get inebriated more?
Your sighs and moans speak the vocabulary of a forgotten
ancient language love hurriedly resurrected for us from past,
brevity is the crux of that lingo of erupting jets of desire,
it teaches you to moan in fifty different tones in all;even more?
Your sharpened nails etch cave murals on my itching back
that has the searing taste of blood, in hot hot chilly red.
my taste buds of lust, begs for more and more of it.
You are the marijuana fueling my narcotic flights that land
in your misty land, enveloping my senses as a whole.
"The night is still young, hear what the darkness whispers"
I hear you speak like an oracle, on things about to happen.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
Zeus is ****** tonight.
Maybe he was having conflict with Hera. Maybe Apollo or Athena or Artemis accidentally attempted to rain art or astuteness or animals down upon Earth, respectively.
Maybe he drank too much wine.
Whatever the reason is, it's quite a light show.
There are no stars, only the
chemiluminescence
on my shirt and my shorts
that were poured upon me by
intoxicated partiers who thought it would be entertaining
to shower the combination of peroxide and phenyl oxalate ester
upon the party guests.
A map of the universe
is splattered across my hands.
It's as if Zeus
threw away the sky,
in an inebriated gesture,
and it landed around me.
Cronus should have swallowed the father of gods and of men whole.
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 9:31 PM UTC
*Inebriated blue cloud,
I know you well enough
libertine ways you have
make you a lover of
deep thunder and meek rainbow
and also a chit of a lark
that loses itself in a song
be it is in grief or mirth.
Strange is the ways of my heart,
how much I long to fall in love with you
and proclaim this to the world scheming
to disrupt the pleasures one seeks
without any reason at all
"Look! love has no limits, no reason even
the lovely cloud, softness personified
caresses my foliage with sensuous abandon
kisses me with her wispy lips of moisture"
I know you understand, though unmindful of
my unbridled passion
making breaches in the limits,
I have no illusion about our improbable union.
True, how can we live
happily ever after?
I envy your gift of wings
though you have none visible,
you borrow it from the wayward wind,
too willing to carry your sweet load around.
I stood on the hill top,
wistfully thinking
that you will come and
take me within your soft folds
though I am a tree with deep running roots
that has become a restraining thing.
Freedom without any limit
gets you inebriated every minute,
your love for love, makes you desirable
you live in the present, suspend thoughts on time to come
as it is hypothetical, you say.
You are in a hurry to roam
wherever lovers lead you one after the other
do you have an urge to dissolve and pour-
as water, without any remorse?
Do you know my penitence for your love
on this hilltop is a true sacrifice?
My love for you doesn't bring anything
except my wilting hour after hour.
Let me be on your blue breast for moments
when my boiling love will seek
your shining center that melts, melts
we'd freeze as one, how long my darling?
Time would simply stand still
to a distance, i'd be transported,
where tree or cloud means nothing
we are an incessant rain lasting for ever.*
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
inebriated
under the influence of
sheer reality
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:09 PM UTC
The big angry things sling vocal feces
Fleshy phallus-pumps close at hand, cooing
Guzzle guzzle ethanol
Inebriated petrol-baby
"Smash the atom!"
"We're too late, we're too late!"
Tar (quick) sand *****
Big angry things drown
"We gotta gotta drill!"
Penetrate the Mother with a steel ****
Oedipus laughs
As the boulder, finally
Crushes Sisyphus.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
It shifts, dual purpose,
Illusions, truth,
Mirages in deserts,
Purity, the stream of life,
It flows, it flows.
The young lady, she stands there,
Her voice muffled in the silence,
She says something but not a sound escapes,
I take her hand and,
She guides me through this crevice,
Between reality and spirituality,
A key between the black door and the white door,
A way out of the waiting room,
She guides me.
Trees a burning gold,
Everything is connected,
Branching out into infinity,
I walk until the path leads me,
To the two rivers in the seam,
I stand in between.
Silence.
What does it mean?
Perhaps an exaggerated dream,
Foreshadowing,
Of what is yet to come.
I walk, and walk,
She guides me,
The deer wanders,
Behind unboundedly,
Liberated, not a care,
Time is an illusion.
We walk until we stop,
My legs like fluid,
No restraint,
A body of water,
Made from the purest glacier,
Connecting from the two rivers,
Understanding.
A towering mountain stands,
King of everything.
Dipping my face in the water,
Rejuvenation and comprehension arrive,
I see a peek of truth at the bottom,
Swim down but I am stuck,
It's not my time.
I surface as she takes my hand,
We walk down the path,
So inebriated with the vision,
Unaware of the avalanche,
Everything collapsing,
Falling, falling, crashing,
I am not to grasp it yet.
A taste of possibility,
The perfect amount of tranquility,
The Creator poured just enough of each ingredient,
A glimpse of what I need to change.
I take the first step into the last days,
A different man.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 3:07 PM UTC
A random incoherent nonsense,
slurs from an inebriated mind.
A stumbling confused conscious,
takes paths ending dead on a dime.
Whiskey, neat.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
V. Ethereal
Maybe being drunk
is the closest I will
ever get to zero gravity--
to walking on the moon.
My fingers curled
around the neck of a liquor bottle,
I wander to my bedroom window,
as a tipsy weightlessness settles
amongst my limbs
(and my thoughts).
Swaying slightly,
I part the curtains and,
in my intoxicated stupor,
search for Polaris in the night sky,
point to it,
press a clumsy hand to the glass,
convince myself that
I have captured the star,
and all the omniscient power
it possesses,
beneath my finger tips.
Star light,
{lips pant--
inebriated,
heavy}
star bright,
{my breath appears a catalyst
as the window pane glazes over
in an impenetrable paroxysm of fog}
first star I see tonight,
{I take a swig,
raise the bottle--
a toast
to the cosmos}
I wish I may,
{Lashes meet in
silent matrimony}
I wish I might,
{Behind closed, desperate eyes,
ribbons of colour dance
towards me in a disoriented jig}
have this wish I wish tonight--
to be
obliterated by the very galaxy
that birthed
these grieving bones
and this tumultuous heart.
Because only then--
as the Gods paint the Night
with the innards of my soul,
acrylic purples
churning against the blackness--
will I become what I
have always dreamed
of becoming:
Lovely.
Ethereal.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
I want to kiss you.
I want to feel your downy lips
Pressed gently against my own.
I crave to feel them part like the
Earth's mantle
Revealing your core
That is wet, hot, and squirming.
I desire to taste your sweet
Honeyed saliva,
To satiate
The sweet tooth
Of my lust.
I want to grip you
As if I were holding onto my own soul
As it tried escaping from my body.
Like it was the end of the world
And we only had each other
To look to for affection
In our final moments of existence.
I thirst to look into your dewy eyes,
That reflect my own feelings
A mixture of desire and fear.
I want to drink in your wanton stare
And get intoxicated by it.
And we'll fall, drunkenly.
Inebriated from life for the first time.
We'd roll around together
Laughing.
The sound
Muffled and obscured,
By the pressing of our lips
And the movement
Of our tongues.
Our bodies would contort,
As we grasped at clothes
Out of instinct.
We'd feel hot
And constricted,
Taking deeper and deeper breaths
As we kissed.
Still waiting,
For the world to end.
-SLuR
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 4:34 AM UTC
One is seemingly more impressed
by the less endowed or blessed
when somewhat incapacitated
and borderline inebriated;
the monstrous unconscious
disregards the likelihood
of fathomless undergarments
in other dubious departments.
Disregard the random blotches
or the involuntary discharges
instead revel in model tonsils
and almond shaped parcels
the comets of multi-notches
like a strange attraction
for disheveled carpets.
The blossoms of toxins
a libation ensemble
almost near horizontal
each movement a bent nozzle
like a prehistoric Narwhal
dancing like a jackhammer
with the elegance of a cement mixer
a broken leaking fissure
seeping vapid glamour
and indecipherable grammar.
The paraphrased clichés
and communiques of praise
like lost prophets put on display
caught in the ricochet of overplay
making an exit with the grace
of a stumbling ballet
down a poorly-lit
nightclub passageway.
Ultimately this can only lead to
the face-plant moment-of-tomorrow
the flooded memory of the-night-before
feeling utterly spent
hungover and hollow
with ill conceived consent.
The: Oh. My. God!
The: ***** is still here,
what do I say?
Hoping inexorably
they would just get up
and silently fade away.
Beer Goggles:
remember to drink sensibly,
or run the risk of
nasty STD's
or unwanted pregnancy
or breathless infidelity
or reckless insincerity
or if you're really lucky,
just another
session in therapy.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
Just how does warm weather conjure
the inebriated
&
lovers,
on to
Londons’ Tube?
Are sweaty nights
an aphrodisiac tune,
to an alcoholic groove?
Wavering
tight stepped shuffles,
paired with
googly-eyed,
hand-clasped,
lip-locked,
snuggles.
Inward thought
toothpicking the corners of mouths,
as cheerful eyes spy
the Underground antics of the South.
That off the shoulder dress,
stranger clothes,
newer shoes;
a fashionista bazar,
A fleeting memory is
Winters’ white metaled fire.
Hapless in this weather
what else to do but smile?
Is it not so much easier than to revile?
Warm weather has a mission…
dismiss disgust.
Go on London smile.
It’s a must.
© Qwey.ku
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC
You need to pay a sin tax
for the way you talk smack,
calling me your property
your syntax is making me
over. the. hill.
I’m heels over head with
you
making me crazy
the way that you speak
your diction’s too weak.
“you’re so nice”
how boring, I choose more
elegant words
to describe your glory
I could write
a five-page double-spaced
essay about you
and get accepted to your ivy league
I could wrap my
arms around you
like ivy on stone
hang you up to dry
on the
clothesline
til you answer the
telephone
I could cling to
you
like static
on your sweater
you better
not
flick.me.off.
Hell, my poetry ain’t free
it’s about as free as
slaves
I have confines, rules
bats in caves
It costs me thoughts
and time
and frustration
costs me more than just greenbacks
and a vacaction.
you need to pay up
talk isn’t cheap
your words cost you
attention
even if
my love don’t cost a thing
I train you like a golden
retriever
you retrieve my orders
like a wide receiver
my language is figurative
but your actions are derivative
you’re confusing me
like
trigonometry
love triangles are not my thing.
our
l θve i ∫ a sin(x)
cos we go off on
tangents and don’t know where to
begin
first we’re infatuated
then we’re done
next we’re inebriated
then we have some fun
happens so fast
then we come together at last
This rollercoaster of emotion
has me puking again
I’m trying to calculate this algorithm
in my head.
its so complicated
I’ll need something else instead.
in this kaleidoscope
I see
many sides
of you and me
I spin it round to try to understand
all I see is a blur of colors
even when I hold your hand.
I wish I could see
the thoughts you hide
from me
I want to understand
you’re radioactive
your face is glowing
even in pitch black
your smile is showing
but, I never get to see
your eyes
make me crazy
hazy
they trip me up
and pull me down
periodically, you’re in your element
and everything clicks
then we stick and the chemistry’s quick
but then you open your mouth
garbage spurts out
I think it’s about time
I take you out
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 2:06 PM UTC
A storm,
a sandstorm,
a blinding sandstorm!
Grits of gold
inebriated with a haunted hurricane
danced with a fiendish fervour
in its search for identity.
Glare of gold blinds,
grip of greed delirates.
Like a marauding butcher,
slivers of gold
gouged out your saneness.
You danced
like a possessed,
with the yellow glister
holding your hand to the funeral pyre of your created destiny.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 12:27 PM UTC
Spanish
La luna es pálida y triste, la luna es exangüe y yerta.
La media luna figúraseme un suave perfil de muerta…
Yo que prefiero a la insigne palidez encarecida
De todas las perlas árabes, la rosa recién abierta,
En un rincón del terruño con el color de la vida,
Adoro esa luna pálida, adoro esa faz de muerta!
Y en el altar de las noches, como una flor encendida
Y ebria de extraños perfumes, mi alma la inciensa rendida.
Yo sé de labios marchitos en la blasfemia y el vino,
Que besan tras de la orgia sus huellas en el camino;
Locos que mueren besando su imagen en lagos yertos…
Porque ella es luz de inocencia, porque a esa luz misteriosa
Alumbran las cosas blancas, se ponen blancas las cosas,
Y hasta las almas más negras toman clarores inciertos!
English
The moon is pallid and sad, the moon is bloodless and cold.
I imagine the half-moon as a profile of the dead…
And beyond the reknowned and praised pallor
Of Arab pearls, I prefer the rose in recent bud.
In a corner of this land with the colors of earth,
I adore this pale moon, I adore this death mask!
And at the altar of the night, like a flower inflamed,
Inebriated by strange perfumes, my soul resigns.
I know of lips withered with blasphemy and wine;
After an **** they kiss her trace in the lane.
Insane ones who die kissing her image in lakes…
Because she is light of innocence, because white things
Illuminate her mysterious light, things taking on white,
And even the blackest souls become uncertainly bright.
3.4k
Monroe Ave c. 2018, in my own dream land. K. Daniel's Revelation, cannot reverse what's starting to happen. Darker, more forlorn. No more bar and restaurant patrons, the streets are just a scattered herd of pestilence. No cars, the somnambules own the streets in silence. Honey dripping hipsters, years gone. ***** clothes, hair past their pearls. Asking for boy, asking for O.P.s, asking for girl, asking for crack, asking for methamphetamines. The only noise.
We lost the reclamation of the city our parents left. Escaping dead end cul-de-sacs of basement poverty, we no longer had to drive. Stacked with our friends in tenement commune. We delivered the body we consume in service, catering to a more privileged few. Only responsible for one when long work was done, I ensured my red blood's full of fun. We drank and inebriated with design when allowed more free time. But, darling, I think this town was already gentrified. We changed no thing.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
do we you or i live life? I think so
we live life and experience things like the cosmos – nebula's, constellations and galaxies the speckled white backdrop of purple green on a black satin sky at night – so magnificent
we live life and experience things like that hobo – cold and homeless an image of pure sadness we look at the wretch and feel despair – he smiles, his shallow and sickly eyes say the opposite. So we wonder what is his story, his history – a mask
we live life and experience things like a rainbow – an optical illusion that has no end and no beginning, it is infinite and we reach and reach and grasp and grasp and and we never get a grip – a mirage
we live life and experience things like children – inebriated adults proclaiming a grin of innocence and a smile of sweetness in small form – we cling to our youth, much like the rainbow or the lion seeking his prey we hunt for it – **its momentary **
we live life and experience things like exhilaration – riding a roller coaster, a high speed car chase – watching a man land on the moon, falling in love, and the times when childlike excitement fill our bodies – the escape
life is so magnificent, who we are behind the mask, how we see a mirage, and its momentary fleeting passing, and our escape –living for the escape.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
Ach so! thou much-praised and lauded Milwaukee,
Thou delightful Wisconsin Stadt of boundless pulchritude,
Verily hath History endowed thy blessed name
With the noisomely beery breath of immortality!
And thank the benign Almighty in highest Heav’n
That thy delectable streets and arboreal squares
Doth remain heretofore untouched by unseemly civic strife,
Despite thy renown as veritable midwife to Sewer Socialism!
Yet, tear-inducing recollections have I of this dwelling-place
And herewith followeth heart-rending remembrances
Of what transpired when I inveigled a plump young Mädchen there
For a brief sojourn of untrammelled concupiscence.
Alas, alack, after gorging her impetuous appetites
On a gargantuan repast of mitteleuropäische delicacies,
Methinks her poor heart gave up survival’s uneven battle
And, warbling a soft piffero-reminiscent sigh, she expired.
‘Twas too tragic thus to depart this happy welkin in mid-prandials,
Emitting a final flatus, sweet adieu, from her rearmost aperture,
Leaving me, her poor forlorn swain, bereft and solitary,
Faced with mine host’s request for instant monetary rendition.
From that naughty place of my bereavement fled I,
Clutching to my ***** the contents of her silken purse,
Determined to partake in untrammelled ***** licence elsewhere,
Ere the chanticleer’s dawn croak wake the inebriated citizens.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
Under a large, round, yellow
Full November moon
The chill of the cold, dark night
Slips in through my window
It fights against the heating
To send a shuddering shiver down my spine
Under the full November moon
People spill out of noisy pubs
Leaving heat, light, music
A false, inebriated happiness
To stagger, swirling home
To warm beds of love
Or cold, empty houses
And late night T.V.
Under the full November moon
Teenager's breath leaves clouds in the air
Hanging heavy and mingling with smoke
From spliffs secretly held in cupped hands
Hanging around shops, parks
Even the disappearing phone boxes
Feeling the arrogance of youth
Course through their veins
Under the full November moon
The middle aged sit
In armchairs with tea mugs
T.V. droning as they dream of their youth
When they were slim and ****
Or hungry and virile
Before it all slipped so quickly away
Under the full November moon
Swingers swap flesh and fluids
In hotels and motels
With no more passion or emotion
Than passing the salt
Under the full November moon
Prostitutes haul their tired, aching bodies
From car to car for the price of a hit
The dealers swagger, stoked full of *******
With the power and arrogance of mediaeval lords
Under the full November moon
People sweat in police cells
Under grey, itchy blankets
On blue rubber mattresses
In a white - tiled nightmare
Under the full November moon
I think of them all
As I sir writing ideas
In a cheap, lined pad
Then turn off the lights
As the full November moon
Bids goodnight
To us all
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 4:06 PM UTC
The ****** poet mainlines inspiration by the gram.
chasing away the gnawing emptiness.
Fill the void with creations formed in pain, molded in your likeness
to keep at bay the loneliness.
The ****** poet and his muse paint the world in inebriated metaphors.
Burnt spoon blackened souls gather on the fringes.
Creating living seas of tortured, tumultuous shadow.
The end comes like an implosion.
Destruction turned inward one last time.
Not a result of action,
but of choices made in moments of self-loathing
when the junkie’s muse was nowhere to be found.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 1:11 PM UTC
A ringing in my ear
The soft cry of children
My innocence slaughtered
Where did time go
I lay here awake
Aware of the mess
Who dragged me from my bed?
My fists are cut and ******
And the bottle lay empty
Another night out?
Butchered tree in my pocket
There’s more to it than this
An endless road lie yonder
The heat waves friendly
I see you but hear nothing
I don’t wave back
Another left behind
Learning new ways to walk
Have we forgotten how to live?
Worshiping false idols
Media is a speedy vehicle
Inebriated driver behind the wheel
The minds of the masses
A thirst never quenched
I laugh as I know
And wander off the road
I think I found a new place to go
The land of maize
But I’m not lost
I have no place to be
Do you?
-AJT
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 3:03 AM UTC
I met an artist yesterday,
sat in solitary silence,
In the shadowy corner of an affluent bar.
And cloaked he was,
by babble of students,
Boasting of wealth and test results.
molested In the attire of a catholic school,
His cigarettes born from bible pages;
and -- Inebriated from the blood of Christ --
surrounded by empty glass apostles,
He paints the papers,
In a masterful stroke --
Of pointilistic precision --
In a viscous hash oil
That he had melted on a crucifix.
The artist drunk, and drunk
He drowned himself,
Deafened by his liver
Drowning in a sea of expensive whiskey --
It was a miracle that he could walk on it.
And began to rack
the coke he'd wrapped
in a losing lottery ticket --
In plain sight of those
'sophisticated' enough
To use a bathroom cubicle.
And hoovered the diamond shards into his nostril,
Through a rolled up scrap of paper --
A letter for an Oxford Interview
he could not afford to get to.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
Pub poetry is a form of performance poetry consisting of the shouted word which has developed in UK urban pubs, dating back to the 1940s and 50s. Words are typically yelled over ambient haphazard rhythms which are not especially chosen for the piece of poetry, rather the poetry is performed over the generic sound of empty bottles and part filled glasses and live samples of patron conversation that will be familiar to those frequenting hostelries around the UK.
Sometimes the audience will employ call and response devices to distract the poet, such as calls of "W##k-er!', with the traditional response of "F##k-You!" before the pub poet continues with his yelled out verse, often read from the beer stained back of an overdue envelope.
The pub poet usually appears on a chair or table, surrounded by immediate family or work mates cheering him on.
Invariably inebriated, the pub poet may not appear to make any sense to the uninitiated - but once you too have availed yourself of your 4th or 5th pint, the words become clearer and easier to appreciate.
No musicality is built into pub poems and pub poets generally perform without backing music, delivering chanted speech with pronounced modulation, broken-rhythmic accentuation and dramatic, though random, stylization of gestures, often resulting in the pub poet losing balance and sustaining a head injury thereby losing consciousness and bringing the evening's entertainment to a premature, but often welcome, end.
It is often noted that many pub poets are remarkably shy and retiring when sober.
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 2:38 AM UTC
i sit here and overdose in my imagination for the fifth time today
too poor to **** myself with a pharmaceutical fantasy no pain just sleep
it's a matter of time before i'm found swinging in my basement necrotic windchime
i'm not so much a poet as a sad kid rambling who can only write inebriated
this one time life thing is getting me sick and i just don't..
**** me i thought i was stronger than this yet years with a **** job
no girl and 5 weeks a night of left hand ************ while i choke down
another bottle bottle bottled my emotions in a seven dollar anesthetic
i've been romanticizing a wished for **** addiction at least that would be an
excuse for why i'm a wasted wasting waste of life doomed to insecurity
i can't even remember half the words i learned in school
you're probably sick of my self loathing and every poem i write is
just another narcissistic cry for help because i'm to proud to ball up and cry
don't even bother this time i don't want your reason for why i can't top myself
kick my bucket, burn my farm, pluck out my eyes and puke till i die
i'm ******* done i'm just too tired to try
to all those girls i never kissed - i love you
to all those ******** i never hit - i love you
to that boy that i might have found myself with - i love you
to my best best best friends the few that i have - i love you
i was never comfortable in my skin
maybe i'll be comfortable in my grave
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC