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alcoholic poet  alcoholic  blood  broken  choices  cold  distance  flesh  loud  miles  much  poet  skin  small  soft  time  wind 
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Sad Poems : Alcoholic Poet

Think. Write. Drink. Sad Poetry by Alcoholic Poet.

Updated: 2018-03-19T23:49:27.265-04:00


Climate Change


the slope took us. the vex of momentum antagonizing gravity. calm and indifferent. as acceleration wove its arrogance into the dense burlap of our psyche.

small magicians in big top hats. shaking their dead rabbits.

the future festers within. poisoning us with a virus of tomorrows.

the intersection approaches. loud and feral. with places and people. and ample claws.

the places fetch us. rudimentary strangers drowning in proximity's allure. seldom found. nor wanting to be. now devoured by shadows and swallowed in sun. awakened by the fire that consumes us.

it was too soon. it was too late. there's little difference

the corner trembles. much too alive. much too real. a lightning bolt in a blizzard. that is when. only one  moment. then it's gone forever.

Consenting Skins


the distance yawned. it never tires. only we do. the sun scoffed. the cold is ours alone. memory a long walk into the wind. there is no beginning. no finish. just moments that fall down upon us. as random as raindrops. until we are drenched.

the storms persist. in both heat and cold. we run to stay ahead, but always get caught in them.

we were arrogant. that was our power. unafraid of the train as it barrelled down. we were young. just as everyone is. when they are struck. some recover. most do not.

it's always bright. that's the appeal. after so much time in the dark. to see at last. all those small things. you had always hoped were there.

time is a luxury of the foolish and the youthful. it can't be saved. it can't be spent. it's only meant to be wasted. and that's exactly what we did.

we pulled on those stitches. we tugged on those zippers. we tore everything open any way we could. and marvelled at the blood.

The Frailties of Time


the folds wither. diminishing under the strain of life's architecture. the vertices pivot. convincing each other. of what direction. of how close. the degrees remain constant. though the divisions fluctuate. spent. the choke of the ladder. as the sky slithers deeper into the distance.

the structure listens. exhaling the last remnants of purpose. soft against the fulcrum. as the lever fails. humbled by gravity's verdict. as the ground reaches out to taste our panic. all horsehoes and fishhooks. on the edge of consent.

we might say it was delicate. remember it as we want. but the truth is, it was brutal. wasted. needless.

the paper turns and gives. the patterns fuss. tomorrow calculates. touch borrows against emotion. for pleasure. for hope. for nothing.

everything is echo. a fleeting bolt of lightning as the thunder cracks against our ears. want pouring down upon us. like that first breath oxygen. as we the surface is breached.

we are so small. everything is bigger than us. perspective whispers. quietly strangling. like that last swallow of air rapidly dissipating. as we begin to sink.

Emotional Tectonics


the layers broke. untamed secrets and lingering debts. the map divined our place. though it was unable to tell us where that is. the elbow accused the fist. and the tongue indicted the lips. as she spun around in her shrinking orbit. certain still that the world would realize she was the center of it.

all the rain. hungrily falling. all the wind. determined to blow. they weren't enough. not even close. all our pieces remained on the board. our dice missing. our turn forfeit.

we dared the edge. confident in our balance. we dismissed gravity. and eventually fell. we loved in seasons. as the last leaves do in the autumn. and the new ones do in the spring.

the paper tore. the book closed. turning choices to suicide. and our words to ghosts.

Diminishing Mass


the velocity comes in sharply. as the moments tumble. one by one. an endless string of dominoes. knocking us down. steep paths in thick mud. falling is progress.

the lingering ratios. loyalty to predation. the simple balance. discipline to expectation.

the highway narrows. still our speed remains constant. we swerve, but collision is inevitable.

the miles make their tick marks in our grief. the stolid cartography that wears these trembling skins. the burden of hope. its inherent betrayal. and lingering consent.

we're only as sure as the deepest cut. we're only alive when all the bandages bloom red. we purchase each other in pieces. placing our bets that whole will come.

we carve our maps in thick scabs. knowing that blood will always take us home.

The Lure of Defeat


memory is elastic. it stretches. it does not break.

intersections are dangerous. too many people going too many different directions.. all splinters and bent nails. as we fumble toward destinations always just out of reach.

choices are lead. they weigh us down. cause us to sink.

flesh is eidetic. there is rage in the smallest of expectations. there is betrayal in the simplest mistakes. the truth emerges as the architect of our grief.

the walls tremble. the structure rots. destruction suits us. it always has.

Organic Poisons


small echoes resonate as the distance chokes. on corrupt corners. and contentious travellers. as our detours undo us.

the little colors larger than the big ones. the small stones that collect. their weight measured in flattened boasts.

the moments multiply. stuttering lovers and careful liars. banging on their broken drums. dancing to music that long ago stopped.

tomorrow spent on yesterday. everything borrowed. shallow footprints in thick mud. the harder we run the faster we're swallowed.

steady monsters. shy heroes. the story slouches. the prose stumbles. we've always had the beginning. it's the end that confounds.

time's shaking fist. heavy with placebos. choice's many needles miss the vein again.

Travelling Music


we languish in the severity of the void. ripe and losing our grip on the detached pantomime that life presents. the sharp intensity of desire. simmering in time's graceless stench.

the mind's scale. struggles to measure our nothing. the body's pendulum sways. simultaneously heavy and weightless. the truth interrupts our surrender. with curious promises of a surface above.

the hours convene to discuss our progress. sorting flesh and choices into equal piles. assuming all are worthless.

it's not far between this life and the next. just one small bridge i'm afraid to cross.

Rational Constants


the wind is weight enough. as the road unfolds under my panic. there are no places. there are no sounds. as we slip out of these wasted skins.

the rain's simple song. the body's grave inflections. hope's deceitful epiphanies.

the cautions of thieves. all broken threads. the force of distance. a catapult of choices.

it's all knots. tiny nooses. blunt needles. caught in the holes.

our bodies spread like disease. touch is fatal. our lips betray. every word a treason.

the distance tells us. little stories of picnics and wolves. breadcrumbs and candy houses. to gut. to follow.

and big teeth. so many fangs. biting down.

Center of Gravity


soft corners tease the arithmetic of volume and depth. want and loss. the tender thieves we take for granted. as our movement subsumes us.

when i walk there are footprints. though the ground is hard. when i am lost there are paths. though the maps are wrong.

the world is quiet. i can barely hear it breathing. a lever. a fulcrum. the body. choice's most basic of machinations.

an engine. a combustion. the physics of skin steadily unravelling under the wrench of context.

the little animals and the big ones. we're the same. the red lights and the green ones. we keep going either way.

the end hums its simple songs. blood seldom listens.

Right of Way


it's nothing now. the yellow panic that wears our bones.

the trembling ladder in our empty gardens. where despite all we give it nothing grows.

the hours tell. in gentle stabs. all the beautiful stories that broke and bruised.

the tender meat kept under our clothes. the corners wagered in screams and shouts. what we want against what we have.

touch too heavy. slowing us down. choices so loud. we couldn't hear anything else.

the monsters know us. they're always listening.

the path cuts. with a dull blade. the bridge bleeds. all the ugly choices flesh articulates.

the years whisper. the body's underlying treason.

our hunger the only constant. as we discard our remaining poisons and surrender to the cold.

Open Wounds


how cold it gets is relative. to how warm it's been. eyes like ladders. skin like stone. all the empty analogs of time and circumstance. asking their questions in sobs and limps.

the barren tree. the fierce wind. each is a small marker in a vast ocean.

the clock accuses. the hours confess. time is a cage. we forge our keys from scraps of skin and feats of panic.

the miles consume us. scraps of meat spoiling in hunger's din.

the winter chews. seldom swallows. the foul of mercy's impotence.

the road grows narrow. the skin loses count. as our bruises multiply. and our crutches fail.

it's dark. but we can see. as the blood overwhelms our remaining bandages.

Persistent Metaphors


the ice was soft as we took our first steps. it was cold. just not cold enough.

the road stuttered. unable to reconcile our distance. the years a long series of small cuts. producing very little blood. yet revealing so much.

the choke of the day. as it whispers from deep below the frost. about the nature of grief. and the severity of want.

the frozen surface of everything belying the frailty in each step.

time limping toward us. both hero and villain. neither alive nor dead. as its hungry zipper bites at our exposed skin.

the colors soft. the choices loud. as we sell our bridges. to finance our drowning.



how close we were. languishing in our wormholes. laughing at time from the other side of a broken window.

the distance stole our breath. the frost took our hope. the economics of intimacy called our bluff.

there were many intersections. there was nowhere to go.

you can't ask for directions. you can't read the map. when you're out there alone. it's just the asphalt as candy. and the miles relentless. though i've stopped counting. the distance does not.

it's the end of the world.. in toothpicks and sober. it's the weather. braiding all those empty skins. it's the moment. swallowing itself whole.

we tell ourselves it could never be this cold. but we don't believe it.

Open Books


i was soft. fallen snow. empty boxes. the distance stuttered. more pragmatist than hero.

there were voices. filtering in from outside the walls. the shaky conundrum of circumstance tying knots in our thread.

we kept the day. in an analog of blood. the hours like gauze. thin and stiffening.

places to go. tomorrow's treason abrupt and lingering. all poisoned cats and uncertainty principles. the lengthy extremities of want negotiating context. as we thumb through random chapters of touch. peddling our stories. carcasses flirting with buzzards.

the corner hit. and direction swallowed us. destination choked. leaving us stranded.

Conditional Statements


the window was open. though the wind did not come inside. the apogee of bone to blood. a deceptive orbit.

voices collapsing. like folding paper. icicles melting on the edge of zero.

we tried it on, but the suicide was too small.

steps to when. the pace of fractions. louder than it used to be.

the stones at our feet. in the simmer of darkness.
betrayed by our bodies. the stern biology of reason. weakened by a  rupture of choices.

the beginning is constant. everything else is clay. time stumbles. barefoot. over life's broken glass.we ignore the blood.

borrowing each hour. spending each other. the savage economics of flesh.  makes us all paupers.



The traffic choked. The bridges stumbled. Distance measured in the collapse of hope. It went much higher than I thought it would when I took the first step.

I was above. I fed the shadows. Small bites of panic we stole from the fist of when.

I went below. I fed the angles. Drops of blood from the wounds we left in how.

The years elapsed. Deflated songs. Skin convinced. In jagged cuts. And tender scars.

The path was loud. I could not hear anything else. Only the weep of the stones under our feet. Consumed by lost.

The moment sharp against time's faded backdrop. As we wagered the miles against lingering storms.

Architects of How


no permanent edges. only the fickle of angles. as the math stumbles forward. in its curious chaos.

it wasn't anything it hadn't always been. we were still lost in the same old places. only the perspective had changed.

as softly as the flesh forgets. as loud as the quiet becomes. whispers of destruction meticulously assembling their monuments.

the miles are nothing. the distance is void. we count by our hunger. we are fed by our choices.

no breadth  to measure ourselves by. just the inches between us.

Sinking Stones


spend the corners. in seldom skins. the sky is clear. too blue to know. where we are. turn the hours. on sinking stones.

the water is shallow. the miles exhale. hope's stringent breath. no room to drown.

the wood winces. under the weight of our path. sharp turns cut the map. its blood louder with each step.

we're only boxes. waiting to be ticked. measurements in a series of guesses.

the sounds linger. the textures consent. as the paradigm shifts. and choice becomes obsolete.

i could give you yellow, blue or red. any color would be the same. now that the light has left us.

we could trust the bridges to take us there. but we'd only regret it.

Temporary Kingdoms


plastic winds blow the velvet rain. in the direction of our lost.

the end came and went. in soft scabs. in hard surrenders. she drew her pictures. in shattered pencils. and melted crayons. pretending to listen. as the empty hours confessed.

seldom saviors. the measure of their conflict still tender. as the hard math overtook us. skin like cannons. in a war of pleasure.

the gentle poisons time confounds. all bent nails and rusted bullets. amongst the callous pantomine of our want.

the brevity of life all muted screams. and molted skins.

she's red. in the natural turmoil of her thoughts. all swaying bridges. and sour mascara. in the naive epiphany of choice. she's black. everything spent. only the blood still sticking. as wounds evolve to scars.

it's over. or at least it should be. gaunt time machines labor to move us. it's now. the thunder of flesh perpetuating our weakness.

Inclined Planes


no turns. only the choke of the path. the hungry soil swallowing our footsteps.

no tomorrow. only the past. louder still with every scrape.

ambivalent predators. tangled in the scent of the hunt.

frailty tallies its jejune epiphanies. while the meat rots. and the bullets stale.

far pretends to measure. close threatens to betray. insisted by our grief. we begin to negotiate with failure.

the gentle thieves administer their bandages. the rest lap at the blood.

the lies leave us limping. the truth forces us crawl.

we're the obvious monsters and we're the subtle ones. the pace of our oblivion uninterrupted.

Adding a link to open mic night at dverse to further the community.

Proximity and Valence


she said the quiet had become too loud. all broken pencils and cracked chalkboards. in the relentless composite of want.

we searched the silence. stumbling as we did. over the fragile templates flesh insists. hopelessly indebted to the promises of when.

he built his bridges from the memories. hoping she would cross.

they spoiled in their friction. petulant children wanting another piece of candy.

she let the years overtake her. youth a fading treason.

they went there. all the miles churning like syrup. a sweet suffocation.

she was listening to the pain. dancing to its endless song.

Postponing the Arithmetic


the wind was unconvinced. as we made our way closer to the edge. the faded colors. the broken crutches. all the usual patrons of blood and sweat.

the moment spent her. as moments are just to do. in slips of chaos. in murmurs of gone.

the end of the world came and went. in broken crayons. in puddles of piss.

we die more than enough before it's over. in shallow splinters. in deep bruises. tissue remembers even as we forget. the casual apocalypses of  romance and friendship.

it's loud. until it isn't. the fundamental sober. of liars and lovers.

we'll wait.

there's time enough to regret our choices after we're dead.

Atomic Weight


the yellow thump of gratitude struggles. in the vague nausea of partially controlled intersections. the dichotomy of skin fails. as both a deterrant and a catalyst. the pandemonium of want. solves us before we can even begin to parse the math.

we're animals. alive at the corners. dead in the middle.

the maps are loud. the roads are deaf. no language. other than desire. the grim expectations of the wounded.

we find each other. between the raindrops. on the cusp of the wind. we play the game. as if winning is an option.

the distance measures us. in tungsten and sulfur. love our primitive time machine. and the years much too sober.

Parameters of Gone


i saw only the particles. as the whole finally made impact. i argued with the intersection. as it shed its stories. in collisions and near misses.

the angles graceless. the speed without expectation. flesh only a form of momentum. thought just a pandemonium of choices.

it struck swiftly and without remorse. the timeline merely coincidence. the bruises sold their panic. all the volatile commodities of flesh. pressing their advantage.

there wasn't a number. distance just went on its way. and we tried to keep up.

it was far. corrupt epiphanies. seldom lovers.

we tried to convince the world.

we couldn't even convince ourselves.