decanting a bottle of wine

                                                      (writing drunk poems)

Misery loves company?

Well my misery dont need any
more company, tonight. 
Not when I have a room filled
with stained-glass wine bottles
that likes to round their full lips of 
seduction and whisper,
'There wont be anymore grief tonight baby
I promise, just reach the bottom.'

Which are bolded Lies, I wasn’t able 
to figure out, until much too late. 
Already too close to the edge to begin
I start to scramble to be -lips to lips-
To fall inside the womanly shaped bottle,
to circle lazy butterfly strokes and swam
in the chaotic point at her center.

I am a maelstrom with two arms to stir me 
careless, because I am only half a star.
Half a moon, tonight.
If misery is for company
than Merlot is for the Nightowls,
Even if we do ended up with a taste of bitter 
grapes bubbling like a cauldron in our stomachs.

Even if I do put my clenched hand
through green window pane when I remember 
grief lies, as I swam alone in the empty glass
looking for an
e s c a p e. 
Or my other star because I am becoming
delirious at how bloody fists
metaphorically looks a lot like bleeding hearts.

paper, on it was love poème written in french

I am a string of paper dolls clipped to a clothes line, blank as a newborn baby hanging in the sunshine. where am I going? what am I doing here? i am starting to think that the people hanging up here with me are too much like how I used to be. waiting to be snipped down and used for something. Always waiting. All waiting. we are all waiting.

for 3 years I have screamed at the heavens, for giving me paper-cuts. what are we supposed to do with these, i asked. i cursed myself for drenching my already fragile skin with alcohol, make-up and lighting on fire rolled blunt tips.

my paper throat burned with a New Year affair and a knife named lust. I was dead before the first slit, drunk off the first sip, and lecherous at the first thrust. delirious and masculine. he was masculine and I was delirious. but only for a couple months, a couple hours, just a seasonal fancy.

I woke up today and I was no longer hanging by myself. A broken flower came and snipped me down. placed me in her backpack and pedaled me around. 

The And Series

Ball and Chain

I want to love you.
I said to my body.

A type of feather-light love that wouldnt
strain bone, crack spines or
bruise my lips when I lie.

Body. I said, this shit aint fair
what your doing to me.
Your too heavy and I am sinking
into this wine too hard and too fast.

With your heavy love feeling like the
ball and chain around my thighs
My thighs are, sore thighs.
With the amount of strangers that keep
falling in betwixt and between.

I want to love you,
but you make my arms too heavy.

Honey I said, this shit aint fair
what your doing to me.
As I sink into
the winetoo hard and too fast.

--

Dependency versus Cruelty

Dependency is not a weakness but a default in ones character that is priceless.
Cruelty is never being able to spend another night in another arms.
Afraid of waking up to them fucking me bloody, bruised, red, and raw.

---

Blood and sTeam

I fill the hollow inside your bones.
And pounding on your ear, till I become known.
Do you feel me run my

fingers calmlyalong the sides your chambers?
I have no choice but to float
as you force me, pump me, and push me.

Do you feel me behind your eyes
As I see you before mines?
I turn cold inside your shivers.

So please dont feed me too much
sugar and clog up our world with too much
fucking syrup and honey.

--

Dehydration and Sex
Lips softer than rain
I drank. Every. Last. Drop

--

The Bed Spoke and Smiled

The bed was crowded; not that it mind. Havin' a day off from bein'
weighed down by her loneliness was refreshin.

---
Untitled and Melancholy

Hope only breeds eternal misery
When you look into the abyss

The abyss
will be looking back into you.

So be careful in what you hope to find,
you may receive hell within
your own confines.


---

I dont love you anymore.


Her stare was hard.
Like a rock that was thrown from her hand
and was caught by
my face.

I can taste blood
from where I accidentally bit the insides of
my cheek.

And fuck did it hurt.
the stare. Not the rock metaphor used
to describe the stare.
That was all figurative

But the 5 words that
followed was the actual pull of the trigger
 to the gun that released
the metal bullet which pierced
my heart and literally killed me.

Dante' Hot ass Oven

Accidents, alcohol, and suicide
The glass was broken in my hands

But I couldn’t stop drinking. Too far gone. Can’t taste the alcohol anymore. So I didn’t notice that my wrists are bleeding.

Dying was not part of the plan

But life is change, quietly. I will go out fucking screaming. 2nd floor, second bedroom. With regrets and only night sweats keeping me company in between the sheets.

As I march my way to dante land

I grab the bottle and like the way it feels on my lips. Reminds me of a loud tragedy. This bane ending. This fading heart beat. This slow blood drip on hardwood floors.

And over the sound I can hear the angels’ scream

My name

Heroes

Start by relaxing your gag reflex, that way the alcohol will go down easier. Rebel rule number 26. If you can endure the burn than you becomes the peoples champion. They will chant your name in cheer and give out roses by the dozens.

Riots of the Heroes festivities.

The only way to appease them is by doing party tricks. But you are going to probably be passed out by now. On the ground covered in magnificent victory, among other glories. The applauds will be deafening, and the sour smell of vomit will be triumphant.

incomplete

What it is to be a
Fuck up?

Cunning and emotionally destructive, with lies thicker then honey but too sweet to resist. We cant even restrain ourselves most of the time.

But it is especially alluring to the newly made butterflies, who unlike us are not used to the sugar coated filth. We fuck up are additives, the glorified heroine and drunken escapes of the gutter world...

Why??

Something is burning just below my belly button. It is the pool of disappointment that is marinating my liver in alcohol. All because of broken expectations.

I was asked today why do we do the things we do? Mother answered because she felt profoundly obligated to. And I said because I was afraid of what would happen next if I stopped.

Then I took another shot and another, just to prove my point and kept going.

Final Portfolio Piece

Mirrors

Closing eyes to stare at her insides. Searching
for happiness the world refuses to show.

Too sober
To look in the mirror and see herself as pretty.

Not drunk enough
To believe she actually was.

3 bottles later there was a crack in the glass
In the fogged mirrors of the bar's bathroom

it was easier to convince herself she see gazes of envy instead of pity.
Not a drunken mess but a beautiful catastrophe.

Blackness crowds around the edges of her sight.
After few more sips keeping her eyes closed gets easier.

Maybe tomorrow will be different than today
Is always the last thoughts before passing out in the stall.

And the world kept spinning in the bottle.
Soothing my throat of its dry spell as I take hit after hit.

ice age

There is an ice age coming again. I look at her eyes see that she relapsed. Wanting the world to view her as a beautiful catastrophe and says to me sobriety makes her cry. I don’t ask for the reason because in shaky hands, forced smiles, and far away expressions I see it clearly frozen in time.

Dancing lies

The fragile cup was ready to break in her hands. But she couldnt stop drinking, too far gone to taste the alcohol anymore, so she didnt notice her hands were bleeding still. This was not part of the plans...far from it.

Couldnt deny the tempting lure of a chille night though. With no regrets and night sweats if only a while. Trying so hard to forget.

Feeling fine. She grabs the bottle and likes the way it feels on her lips. So fine. She knows. As the sway of hips against hips, she convinces herself not to acknowledge the lies.

Today was not a good day.

Fading addictions

She allowed them to cut a hole in her chest and fucked her heart. It was abstract and it was consuming, and yet not quite. But she needed the pain to smoother the booming emotions she can never extract, assuming there isn't any alcoholic contact.

She had french inhaled the menthol and allowed it to sloshing around in her brain. It only granted minimal satisfaction.

Oh how she loved the irony.

What should an addict to physical pleasure do. When they reach the peak in a leisure life that lacks deeper meaning. What other satisfactions can she seek?

To be or not to be, and oh woe is she.

Swiming

It was her heart that the knife took as its victim. The culprit already another face in her sea of memories. The pain persistent with its lingers. Hidden just beyond the hills, pass the point where others can see.

Sweet liquor alleviate the symptoms and she whispers words so softly mimicking a saints prayer and writing words dark as her past sins.

Forgive me father?

She waits to find herself passed out against the cool linoleum floors yet again. Its unavoidable she knows this and yet...

So fragile but never on the outside. No never in front of pretty brown eyes. Her beautiful butterfly wings are always getting crushed in that L shaped net and yet...

Subconsciously hope without the acknowledgment, that there is no regret. Feel without realization only diving into temptation. Head first and naked.

She stop painting a clowns face on herself. Falling once more for the circus tricks, she promised never again. It was her heart that the knife took as the victim when once upon a time there was one that she truly thought adored.

Didnt want to add to sea of memories. The piranhas are already being over fed. But a part of her wanted to learning how to swim again.

The apple dont fall to far from the family tree

Pressure just under her eyes. She will not cry has become her new motto, as of tomorrow. But it hurts so much mother.

I know baby just accept the pain with a kind heart, open smiles, and a half empty bottle of wine.

Oh mother if you had to choose over, she hope you would choose the other.

But being her mothers daughter causes the pressure of depression and emotional repression to take toll. And dear sweet father, so confused about the world with an already to heavy to carry soul.

Drunken days makes the night more bearable when you are passed out. Cant be awake to open the door of mistakes. Trying to live without facing failures of life. But the numbers seem to increased tenfold everyday.

Sighing is becoming another habit. Thank you mother. Thank you father. She is the pride and joy of a used to be happy daughter.

Another day

The words she didn't say were still ringing in her head. No...not ringing. Screaming! Wanting and needing to come pouring out. Like the liquor she knows she shouldn't have drunk. But the heart whispers doubts and sows her mouth shut. She must not be weak it says. You need that drunken smile to hide behind a normal front.

Existing in the middle of a day and a dream she finds she is feeling wonderful lost in between. So unaware and yet feeling too much. Seeing things not meant to be seen.

But its the tender touches hurts the most and yet we are addicted to the things we hate. Another burning swallow prevents her from crying too much.

Wanting to runaway from fate, all of life's trials, and the sad faces she see when she closes her eyes. Is nothing but a broken wish.

So pathetic the words scream as she brings the bottle up for another kiss.

Drunken vices and virtues

Her vices has a vice-script hold on her drunken soul. She loved lowering her inhibitions so when she was high enough, she could wave as they fly over her head. Thinking of lies yet to be told she kissed her, him, she and her again.

Always fun to herself...but not so much to others. Especially when runing low on rum and coke. Never a quiter just more resigned. She is her mothers cookie cutter daughter. A budding grape compared to fine wine.

Taking all her follies to bed with her and making sweet lust in a wakeful dream. All temperance getting lost in between clean sheets. Pretending to be the fool can only last for so long before guilt gets thrown up. Prayers to the lush Gods in sexy moans, painful screams and torn hurls.

Deep in her toxic vacation from the sober real world. Slipping slowly and diving further into the Brandy. Quickly finding the familiar fading pain. And spending the night on isolation's lonely shores.

Forgive me?
She asks yet again.

As unconsciousness floats her out to sea.