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Monday, August 3, 2009

a poem of the drunk'n variety

Fill it up towards the top,
Chug it down, feel it drop.
Your feet fly forward, fast on the heels
Of invisible winds that call and chill-
The feelings there; you know enough
Of broken hearts and crazy nights
Where the best decision you ever made
Was to leap without the look,
To take the fall and close the book
You’ve trapped your thinking mind inside.
Keeps you ‘sane’- makes you abide.
Your lungs expand like so much bread;
The yeast is there, inside your head.
Hope that yeast never runs dry,
Cuz believe you me, and I do try,
Asking for yeast isn’t asking for sugar,
And the askings fine if it’s not vulgar.
Your feet still flying, you think of falling,
Ready to let your feet go from under you
And break your face on stained concrete-
That same concrete beneath your feet.
You’re not afraid of your fling thoughts;
You’ve heard them all, and it’s no different
Than at family dinner with the steak knife,
Begging you to end a life.
Your eyes now skyward, what you see
Means something else, blind-drunk and free.
Every thing’s the same thing,
Some shattered glass, a broken wing-
One blur of light and color and wind,
And then you’ve stopped, your gasp chagrinned.
You feel your breath hitting your teeth,
You close your eyes, your lungs bequeath
You’re human there, under your skin.
Your skin that you do living in.

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