"uppers" poems
Empty hands and love wasted
Wasted, the state of being wasted
Drunk on love
Or high on life
Perhaps intoxicated with the idea
Breathing in the fumes of both
Hookah and happiness
Crushed up pills meant to calm anxiety
Only calm their mind
Not the body, not the syncopated motions
Not the actions in which they're partaking
Crushed up pills, crushed up souls,
Uppers and downers so that maybe
While their mind is numb,
Their body sure isn't,
Maybe for a moment they don't have to think
About what love actually is.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
If you're a celebrity
For medications come to me
I have them all, come see, come see
I'm the devil in disguise
I sign prescriptions by the score
If you run out, I'll give you more
I'll bring your pills right to your door
I'm the devil in disguise
Dr. Robert, Feelgood too
Names I'm sure are known to you
If you're in need call you know who
I'm the devil in disguise
Uppers, Downers, oxy's....well
Imagine what is down in hell
I'll keep your secret, I won't tell
I'm the devil in disguise
Elvis called, and MJ too
They both liked pills in shades of blue
No one else does what I do
I'm the devil in disguise
It's up to you, which choice you make
I fulfill, and you....you take
I'm here all night, don't need a break
I'm the devil in disguise
If you're in need, well...I'll be there
You pay for service, and I care
I've got lots, and lots to share
I'm the devil in disguise
If you're mute, and lost your voice
You know I'm your only choice
I'll be right round in my Rolls Royce
I'm the devil in disguise
You'll end up dead, but I'll keep kicking
With pills and needles, stars keep sticking
I'm the doctor all the stars are picking
I'm the devil in disguise
I am the devil, that is true
I am around, that's not new
I'm known to them, but not to you
I'm their doctor...till they die.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
Two inconnu sheathed within sight of one moon
Betwixt embers'and uppers consumed by whom
Two nocturnal allies have each exhumed
By Caffeine and Adderall's swindling tomb
And Nicotine's cluches; an imbibing room
He can't spell
I can't speak
Parallels
None bespeak
He's got canines and relatives
To replete empty spots
Whilst a book full of lies
Keeps my soul ersatz.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:52 AM UTC
He weaves slowly between the tables
at Buongiorno's
stooping over each diner's ear
close and intimate as a lover
He asks if they can spare a little
money for his lunch
He's gaunt each cheek shadowed hollow
his skin bleached white as bone
Each vertebrae is marked prominent
Each finger skeltonic thin
Unsocked, in shoes laced with knots of string
leather uppers baked, cracked and crazy creased
His hair is dry-straggle stalks of corn
Eyes hold a stare that fixes fast the lies
He cuts a powerful figure under that cosy awning
though some name him worthless beggar
Fearless of taunts and titles offered from shamemongers
and well-respected-men-about-town
there is no guilt in asking for your basic needs
from the latte-ccino mob who have so much to spare.
© M.L.Emmett
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 8:23 AM UTC
*I love'd you,
with open hearts,
your love,
was* stimulating.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
I am so afraid of becoming White Collar Micheal.
He likes to act like his life is so hopelessly blightful, because his name is White Collar Micheal.
On the weekend, he throws on a tie-dye.
Goes from Business Man, to Mr. Nice Guy?
Deep down you know it's a facade, aka,
Your big life's a big lie.
He does so many uppers you may as well call it the tweekend.
He fills his mind with illusions of grandeur.
I look at him and think "you need to be a man first."
Instead of filling my head with candy and dreams, I face my demons.
And it's utterly delightful because I know I will never become a
White Collar Micheal.
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 5:48 PM UTC
Deathbed Confession
“In 1971 a man calling himself Dan Cooper hijacked
a plane from Portland to Seattle, demanded parachutes
and $200,000 in cash, then jumped into the night with
the money, never to be seen again.” — fbi.gov
So little seemed to be at stake.
The bomb was real; the threat was fake.
Neither was difficult to make.
And I was in my element,
or almost there. Yes, the descent
was cold, but warmer as I went,
and yes it was coal black and raining,
but I had uppers and my training.
I’ve spent my whole life not complaining.
When I could see the woods I wandered
out with the twenties, which I laundered,
safety-deposited, and squandered,
and with the oddest thing — a name
I’d paid for but could never claim,
a private riddle, private fame.
That’s been the hardest part: denial —
remaining of no interest while
the Bureau opened up a file
on every former paratrooper
who in his final morphine stupor
discovered he was D.B. Cooper.
I’m D.B. Cooper. There, I said it.
It’s decent work if you can get it,
but it pays cash. There is no credit,
or blame, or pity in thin air,
and I’ve spent forty winters there.
I’ll take whatever you can spare,
although I don’t suppose the guy
whose last confession is a lie
deserves it any less than I.
This piece is written by Kansas Poet Laureate Henry McHenry. The rights to the poem are completely his.
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
I am one of three –
Shadow, skin, and light.
A triplet split from the same egg and *****
**
Make it 3 and you’ll have me
Explicit.
It’s so ****
Being cleaved into thirds.
A ********* with myself –
The shadow is morose.
A needy, demanding *****
Begging to be cut up.
I want to,
So I can see the blood wring around my –
Her
Wrists like shackles pinning her
To my bed.
I know it’ll shut her up
But I can’t bring myself to do it.
I’m not that *****
The skin is boring.
A virginal flower
Dreaming of understanding.
She’s too wholesome,
Always waiting for the right
Version of herself to come along.
Saving myself –
Herself
For the right time.
My tastes aren’t quite so
Vanilla.
The light is adventurous.
A psychotic, brilliant ****
******* herself into the ground.
Necrophilia just got a whole lot hotter,
Bodies piling up thanks to her STDs –
Stupid, thoughtless decisions.
Protection? Ha!
That’s for normal people.
There’s no need for me –
Her
To slow down;
We like it fast.
The skin doesn’t participate.
The ***** virtuous ******
Fidgets as the others 69 –
A disgusting yin yang
Of low and high.
The shadow drinking downers
Until she can’t remember
All the bruises covering her heart,
Too distracted by the bile
Smeared across her lips.
The light popping enough uppers
To strip herself of her
Consciousness,
Naked and raw
She often wakes bitter
Of her restored senses.
This ********* takes place
In a womb,
An amniotic ocean
Swaying toward the shores
Of existence.
Two will drown –
Vanishing triplet syndrome.
Only one may be pulled from
Mental waters and placed on the sands of reality.
The labor takes 33 hours -
Finally I emerge.
Who survived?
There is no way to tell.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
Life gives my stomach knots
Dread conquers my thoughts
I am weak, for I can take it no longer
As life goes on, it gets wronger and wronger
I look to the pills; I look to the bottle
They are kind and act as my throttle
Uppers and downers
My friendly encounters
People: my enemies
Hates and jealousies
They are all better than I could ever be
They have more than I could ever see
So what will I take today?
What will make these thoughts go away?
But they'll be back, just like a pest
What I need is eternal rest
Dec 17, 2010
Dec 17, 2010 at 10:25 PM UTC
She snorts her Ritalin
she snorts her xanex
she snorts her *******
before she has ***
She loves her codeine
and her amphetamines
her world spins so fast
she needs some Dramamine
she buys and sells pills,
writes prescriptions
she skips most meals
to feed her addictions
light up a cigarette
gulp down a percocet
mix uppers and downers
hoping that they offset
she takes bottle after bottle
of pills and alcohol
she just tips it back
and swallows it all
a walking pharmacy
a waiting tragedy
a princess of pills
her Medicated Majesty
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 7:12 AM UTC
He’d been able, after some gentle persistence,
To wheedle his way into the place
(He’d been vaguely recognized by the caretaker,
A certain affable familiarity his stock in trade, after all)
And he had been decidedly deliberate in his search for the shoes,
Though he’d been quite certain where he’d left them,
Simply hoping to drink this all in just one more time
But though the rooms were ostensibly unchanged
(He'd noted the odd knick-knack and piece of bric-a-brac
Had been secreted out, to be preserved or pawned)
They held no fascination for him now,
Simply concoctions of hardwood flooring,
Decorative wall coverings, staid pieces of furniture
(Indeed, the paterfamilias of this whole mélange
Increasingly beyond his recall-- he could hearken back
To a certain hail-fellow-well-met in his demeanor,
And he'd had an affecting smile,
But he was unable to conjure any further details
From the recesses of his memory)
And with nothing else to moor him to these silent rooms,
He'd slipped on the ostensible reasons he'd come in the first place
(Their uppers maintaining their whiteness
Through any number of bleachings,
The soles worn to a near smoothness)
And, nodding perfunctorily to the mansion's steward,
He slipped away, heading to some other party
Carrying on in more or less perpetuity,
The battered bottoms of his shoes
Leaving just the faintest marks as he crossed the dunes,
Soon to be buffed away altogether by the breeze.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
the holiday season
has just begun
and the death toll
on the roadways do stun
drivers
driving
far
too fast
for
these
maniac
drivers
the
dice
is
cast
drivers
consuming
too
much
beer
and
wine
the
outcome
for
them
is
the
end
of
the
line
drivers
taking
uppers
to
stay
awake
they're
putting
their
lives
and
others
at
stake
some forethought by drivers
who get behind the wheel
may obviate the death statistics
which grow with zeal
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
Shooting up the uppers and downers
To relieve your life away
Taking care of you was your number one priority
Having your children start a new life
In suburban Ville
Only to grow into the fakes and cowards that you present yourself
The water gradually never
Being too shallow for you
The sparks and whirlpools
Surrounding this family
Engaging us in a ball of hate towards each other
Never seems to fail
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 1:13 PM UTC
Either I'll see you in ten minutes,
God
or I’ll be lying in bed
self-induced coma
oatmeal upbringings from my esophagus
tremor stricken
shrunken sobs
grasp onto life
or onto toilet paper
in my bath of uppers
ill insist on decency
wear white
forced affection
carry me on chairs
and take my candy
and my daughter will exasperate
at the end of the lane
MOM
and will see the triple entante of assistance
and will choke
and stroke my forehead
and ill meet prostitutes
and color
and expel black liquids
from all crevices of my body
make this easy on me
God
or I’ll see you in ten minutes
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 7:46 AM UTC
Adderall tears burn red lines down my face
Heart stampeding over my cracked ribs
The earth stutters a tipsy beat
As I shake on a train to no mans land
Orange eyes watching green lights zooming past
Living life as a watercolor stain seeping through ***** newspaper
Whoever you are I miss you
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
The seed of joy is now gone,
the men on top trying too hard,
just let the drink hold,
and let everyone taste the drink of gold.
The men up top have not done that,
driving the great drug away,
thinking they are doing right,
oh how they don’t posses great sight.
New distributers have come around,
the uppers oblivious to all,
basically letting the drink hold,
oh how I love the taste of gold.
I think the top believes they won,
but I hope they realize what they did,
crimes of innocence now arise,
the marvelous drink I do not despise.
The saga ends with fault,
new people come here to supply,
men living in the wretched clink,
all because of the golden drink.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
He has the heart of a tattered harlequin
Patched and re-patched with rags of broken times that were once good.
The cloth of its chambers is worn and threadbare
Held by the shreds of borrowed nights and comical stolen mornings.
He has the heart of a battered harlequin
And regret has turned his blood to the colour of rust
Unanswered questions congeal and clog his pulse
When he is lonely and aching, time - not isolation- is his worst enemy
He has the heart of a knackered harlequin
Kept moist by whiskey and gin, and uppers and downers that he pops like candy
He has a patchwork sack of a heart
It can never be filled and often feels empty.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC
I wake up and feel something is askew.
Then I remember what I heard last night on the news.
Then I push it aside and turn on the TV.
I’m sure someone can deal with it better than me!
Our politics are failing. Society’s flailing.
Getting’ crushed under the weight of our own pompous detailing.
But I don’t mind, there’s nothing I can do.
I’ll just grab a bite, get another tattoo.
Maybe by the time I’m done, it’ll have worked itself out.
If it hasn’t I’ll just shut my eyes and think of something else!
I guess I could try to make a difference,
But I’ve got more important things I have to deal with.
Like the season finale of my favorite show,
A bottle of Jack to finish and a party to throw!
I guess I can try to help out, if I’ve got the time. We’ll see.
Hey, look! Beer over there is buy-one-get-one-free!
I gotta stock up for the big game tonight.
Gotta go. I’m sure you got the problem covered, right?
Drunks and liars and posers, you’re fired.
Idiots, ********* worldwide mob masses.
Outcasts that walk alone, self-loathers, homophobes.
Jesus freaks. One more drink. Intelligence levels sink.
Dumb jocks and ****** Gangbangers. Guerilla wars.
Drop the dime, save the time. Pretend you’ve lost your mind.
Uppers and downers. Immigrants, minors.
Emos and cheaters, and ******* wife-beaters.
****** ex-girlfriends, freaks, frauds, text message sends.
Alcoholics relapsing. Governments collapsing.
Oil spills, anything for thrills. Hold on, just one more ****
Suicide bombers, no mothers, no fathers.
This world’s so ****** up, how will it end up?
I don’t wanna know, don’t wanna see.
Don’t make me face reality!
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 12:22 AM UTC
Your buttons looked like smiling faces
Green fire below your every step
Green like the sea
Green like algae growing on the tips
Of rocks
That protrude from your knuckles
Bare flesh becomes red flesh
Under the weight of the gaze
Tear collecter
You bore me with stories of frailty
Yeah, I know I'm human and life is fragile and all that jazz
I just want to **** some brain cells
That's why I waste my money on coral
And pearls
Hairspray_ letters and bone marrow
Drinking licorice
Smoking incense
Sparking up a glass pipe
Full of Apple blossoms
Colorless
Oderless
Gasoline fumes
Coat up my lungs with lackluster black lesions
Uppers downers lefters
Drill a hole through mg skull if you love me
Dump some 409 in my skull if you love me
Nothing feels better
Than Mr. Clean jumping in my veins
From the mouth of the needle
At least this time I saved enough money
To buy a pencil
So I could write this poem
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 2:18 AM UTC
Paint
Glitter
Highlighters
Water
Glow in the dark
Sharpie markers
Canvas
Red Bull
Cigarettes
Lighter
Sparklers
Feathers
Chronic
Uppers
Downers
Middlers
Extravagent
4th dimension
hyper being
Nocturanal Drug Fiend
Best Friend to the Speaker
Bass
Middle Fingers
Breakdowns
womp
womp
womp
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
Love felt like ripping apart your lungs and then trying to breathe.
Love felt like Smashing a glass bottle then trying to piece it back together.
Love felt like Being on so many uppers you'd have heart palpitations.
(Love felt like a night that you know the stars are out but there's too many clouds) (C.M.)
Love felt like A gust of wind knocking you to the ground.
(Love felt like finding comfort in a casket)
(Love felt like building a house with Popsicle sticks and glue instead of cement and bricks because he was afraid of commitment) (S.F.)
Love felt like Being punched in the stomach as you hunch over afterwards.
Love felt like Fainting at a sight.
Love felt like climbing into the comfort of your bed after the longest day of your life. (AG)
Love felt like Feathers running across my skin.
Love felt like Flower petals kissing my lips.
Love felt like Hammers knocking at my head.
Love felt like Cutting down a tree and then yelling at it to grow back.
Love felt like The consumption of alcohol.
Love felt like The first sip of coffee in the morning.
Love felt like Chain smoking cigarettes.
Love felt like The way he kissed me while I was still in a slumber
Love felt like Flowers in a field on a sunny day
Love felt like How my mother hugged me everyday before I went to school although I could smell the alcohol on her breathe
Love felt like Music
Love felt like The tears running town my cheeks
Love felt like His name running through my mind again again again again
Love felt like An invincible smile
Love felt like The way his eyes set sight on mine
Love felt like A new beginning
Love felt like Finishing a book you couldn't put down for three whole days
Love felt like Him Making me his world
Love felt like puncturing my ear drums because I kept playing the voicemail you left me over and over
Love felt like Many sensations
Love felt like Love
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
I,
Art,
Pointed vocabulary.
You,
Me,
Or I,
Combustible,
Inexcusably,
Irrevocably,
Unattainably,
Plated,
And jaded,
New years faded,
We,
Are geometric.
Mathematically methodic,
Periodically pinning,
Hot and heated,
Razor folds and sharply pleated,
Fascist fad,
Plaid,
Bellbottom dreams,
Up do uppers,
Down right downers,
Freedom from freedom,
Morals for the meat grinder,
Hamburger politics,
Methodic politics,
Periodic politics,
Political politics,
Politics frolic with a devil,
And an angel by its side,
For a fast food meal,
With hamburger policies,
And fascist fries,
Supersized and supervised.
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 2:37 PM UTC
They pull the strings behind the scenes, they think themselves queens and kings controlling everything.
And we're the poor pawns that fawn on and on and on, day to day, from dusk til dawn.
We need to stop the cycle. No, we HAVE to stop this cycle. Get off the bike, though, we might not like to, Because we're prisoners and though we're lacking actual shackles, our rights are *** backwards, and the rulers are money-hungry psychos.
We the people pay the price,
The price for living paid in pain and constant suffering,
Nothing's really what it Seems,
And no one Sees because We numb ourselves through drugs and Vicodins,
Pill-poppers, downers, uppers,
Blunt-puffers, paint huffers,
Wrist cutters, coke snuffers,
Methamphetamine intravenously-injecting stupid *************
Drug smugglers, crack stuffers,
Mother struggles, baby suffers,
Speed lovers, glass crushers,
We numb it all so no one bothers.
but sitting comfy at the summit,
Watching the planet plummet,
Are the ones pulling the strings behind the show.
The ones without a soul.
The ones behind it all, yet few of us do know.
It's time we all wake up, stop confirming to the rules, it's time we cut these strings and put the people in control.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC
She is a spindle on my bed
Reminding me of my mumma
Sweating on my sheets,
naked, lewd, romanticizing me
Not knowing I hide her
from my friends and family
Not knowing I drink, pop
uppers, downers, as I prop
Up against the headboard
and as I watch her cradle
Her head between my
Half Caucasian, Half ******
Thighs, riddled with scars
Seven years old, one year older
Than the baby I gave up.
I wonder how I taste, how
I look, Do I taste like shame,
Do I taste like love forgotten
Do I look like the ******
The city girls gossip that I am
Can you see the removal,
The crib I threw my child from
The trauma that caused me to
Abandon him, to abandon me,
What will cause me
To abandon you
Sarah, my love, where have I gone
Why have I left you, bloodless,
Soulless in the pitch black dreary
Gravelled upon the smoothness
Of my deceitful, coarse projection
Sarah, I am sorry that my shame
Coerced me to run from your
Eternal rays downward on my
Dimpled, crooked smile, on my
Dimpled brown *** attached to
My snakey spine, what holds
My ribs, what protects my lungs
Which do nothing but breathe
You.
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC