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You know those days where you say "I'm just tired" but really, you're masking something and you're getting to tired to properly mask it. So then someone knows somethings wrong. I don't think anyone other than my reflection knows it yet, I can see it in my eyes that the sleepless nights turned into weekend over sleeping isn't because I just like to sleep, I just like to try and dream again. I don't have those much anymore, it's mostly just like a pause screen between game play now, the faint static from channel 3 in the background. Dark loading screens turn into Monday morning drives to work, what I loved doing has turned into daily tasks that turn to lost thoughts. I guess every good dream has an ending, i just didnt think mine would end like it has, i don't see a passion in doing what i do, maybe its the suffocating bills, the unobtainable goal of buying a house or just the fact that im not a kid anymore, you dont learn lessons like a kid now, theres consequences to fucking up. I don't really know what to do anymore, I guess I'm just tired.

#goodtoogo

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Poetry of a suffering alcoholic.

Today is my last day drinking. My last day living by drip. Facing facts that drinking will only do so much is a lie. Drinking does solve everything. I grew to love me, I grew confident. I grew to think I didn’t need that girl that had everything I ever wanted. I grew to think maybe I could dance to that club song. Until I couldn’t. I drank till I realized I couldn’t dance to that one song, I drank until I hated myself and I drank till I lost sight of that sparkle in your eye. Feeding myself like the IV drop to a coma patient I was racing to the finish line and besting the record. I write this with a drink in my hand. Knowing that it’s only my eighth beer. Knowing I’m still 4 away from remembering every detail of you. Every I love you and every lean over the bed kiss good morning because you started work earlier than I did and you were already ready but you knew how to make my day before my eyes were even open. I had my crutch before alcohol. I smoked more than the coal factories providing power to China. Using more fuel than a ocean liner in the form of butane, I smoked to the point where I didn’t know if I enjoyed it or I was used to it. Falling into my daily routine. The only difference now is that a can last longer than a bowl Monday through Friday. Weekends are a blessing where I can drink myself to the bottom of the alter on Sunday morning. To the point that the kitchen table looks like a soft place to rest my head for the night. Where every ex I had is the perfect girl and I never should have given her up.

Today is my last day of drinking. It was a hard day at work and money is tight but a cold beer and a steak reminds me it’s all okay. I write this with a beer in my hand. I no longer dream about suicide and death just the chance to taste another beer. Feel the arctic lips of a freshly cracked bottle against mine. The bitter hatred of my dessert like tongue feeling the waters of Nile River flowing over it. It’s refreshing. My carbonated demons live in my fridge, knocking at the door. My subconscious mocking my sobriety from the darkest corners of my mind. This is the poetry of a suffering alcoholic, and tomorrow will be my last day drinking.

Today is the last I drink, it might interfere with work in the morning. I write this with a beer in my hand and empties in front of me. I want to go out, all my friends are going dancing and I want to show the world that I can dance. I know it’s not a good idea so I will stay home and sip my liquor cabinet. I wish I could go out tonight, but tomorrow will be my last day of drinking

This is the poetry of a suffering alcoholic. God help me tonight needs to be my last day drinking.

Today is my last day drinking. It was a good day, I worked hard and put in my hours. I brought a girl who means the world to me hot chocolate because she hasn’t felt good in a couple of days and I made her laugh when she was feeling down, I write this with a drink in my hand. Thinking I’ve earned it. I did a good thing today, a nice cold beer and a couple slices of pizza go a long way after a good day. I’m glad I could pull her up after she was feeling down. Be the out stretched hand that could reach far enough before the dramatic music ended. Spun from spiders web my hand will always be there for you. I will never fail to catch you. This is the poetry of a suffering alcoholic, and tomorrow will be my last day drinking

Today’s been a boring day, it started early I cleaned the house then my room cleaned my desk did my laundry and washed my sheets. I write this thirsty. Wishing I had a drink in front of me. Wanting to go to the store and buy what I want most but lack the control over. Wishing nothing more than to be able to hold it look at it and taste it. With cash burning a whole in my pocket I try to justify it every waking second. It’s a long weekend, I don’t have anything to do tomorrow. Why not drink the night away, waist another day doing what I love. I love it with the burning intensity of going back to an ex, remembering the good times the laughs and the heavy breathing between kisses. It’s the only way I can describe my 9th beer. It’s amazing until it’s empty. Then I remember heart break. The tears that followed. Grasping at the thought that maybe this should be the last time. I know it won’t be the last time. This is the poetry of a suffering alcoholic, and tomorrow will be my last day of drinking

Today was a good day I went to the gym for the first time in a long time. Came home drank my protein shake. Did some chores kept my mind clean. You have a way with me. I write this with a drink in my hand. I wish I wasn’t living in a time where It felt like an appointment to see you. I remember a time where at the drop of a pen we would be together your hand in mine in my makeshift 4 door coupe. It was such a trash filled car we couldn’t go in the back seats. We just had to make the most of it, and we did. Followed the stars as though the bumps in the roads were the wakes and the pot holes were islands the road was our ocean and we mapped every inch of it. Charted courses following our hearts into the mountains. Finding hidden coves filled with treasure it was a new story every day. I look back on those days when I follow my maps. Looking at the stars to guide me with the brightest star still perched above your house. Reminding me every day of what we once we’re. This is the poetry of a suffering alcoholic, and tonight I miss you.

Tonight was a rough night.. my little sister has a deformed heart. Compressed lungs and depression, and I can’t fix any of them. I tell my dad what’s happening and it seems we only fight about it. What can I do right. I write this with a drink in my hand and one in the holster. Tonight I’ll sit on my floor fighting back tears. Ducking and dodging trying to be strong so she can see she’s not the only one who’s afraid. This is the poetry of a suffering alcoholic, and tonight I feel like a failure. 

I can never tell if I drink about you or her anymore. I miss you, dreaming daily about your lips. Remaining vigilant every waking moment I dream of her eyes. I write this with a drink in my hand. Remember the times we shared the car rides and the mountains. Showing you things you’ve never seen before experiencing things you’ve never felt before. I remember the lemon squares. They have never tasted the same since that trip. Those corners just reminded me of how much of a sphere you were and I mean that in the most literal sense. My life revolved around you. I miss feeling the gravity of your eyes, so brown and so deep I felt like a satellite I will follow you till the ends of the earth. I fucking love you. Tomorrow is my last day drinking, and maybe whisky will help me move on from you 

I still love you, I dream about you, think about you every day. I wished I still smoked about you but I promised I would stop smoking for you. I get to my fifth drink and your lips are burnt into my mind I can’t think of you without remembering the damage, Good times and the damage dealt.. I can’t tell you I fucking love you because it will kill me, it will break me down to the point that I wish I was as an volcanic rock. I wish that I was a million years old and the thought of you hadn’t bothered me in the last 700 hundred thousand years It would take me at least that to seal this cage again. This is the poetry of a suffering alcoholic, and tonight.. and tomorrow I’ll write something new

Nights like tonight I sit here and think, I’ve never been a beautiful writer but i can type out a few beautiful lines here and there. The clicking of keys of a key board lead by a set of fingers that cant keep up with a mind fueled by a heart beat thinking of you brings me back. I remember writing about you endlessly. My inspiration, my dream she was my  protronus, I could call to her and like a magic spell my demons would be gone. i haven’t called on her in a long time now, facing my demons head on, going to the Dr. Making sure I’m okay, Going to a counselor before it gets out of hand, it’s one foot in front of the other. I’m getting better. This is the poetry of a suffering alcoholic, and this month marks a step in the right direction

It’s been 3 years since we’ve talked, im about to turn 28 and I still remember the last time we kissed, it was my birthday, I had just turned 25 and we were trying our best but our best just didn’t turn out to be the best. You were my 25th birthday wish, I forfeited every 4 leaf clover every 11:11 you once were my everything I miss your lips. This is the poetry of a suffering alcoholic. I did my best I tried to stop drinking but the thoughts of you still kept me up at night the empty pillows the cold side of the bed the pot holes I hit without a burnt chocolate tounge to say “ooh they still haven’t fixed that one” I just stopped dodging holes in the road. I hit them head on now, most times i curse the roads but the odd time I still think of you. The ways we drove those roads like they were all new even though we drove them when we were children, the fields we once layed in to see the stars next to the hills we once sat on top of. I still remember hitting my mirror off a tree with you. I still think about you. Every day I think about you. This is the poetry of a suffering alcoholic, and I’m sorry for what I put you through

[goodtoogo]

had i loved me better i wouldn't have been in most of the situations i placed myself in. but with pain there is always purpose. everything happens for a reason. stay gracious.

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See you around kamloops, it's been a slice

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Your late 20s are not old and there is still lots of time left at 26 or 27 or 30. You haven't wasted your potential. Not me tho im running out of time by the day

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I took me forever, but I said I wanted to do it.

#tattoos #mental alchemy

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God, it's been so long since I've tried, I don't know if I remember how. Writing has escaped me. Lately all I see is left and right, get the job done, go to and from don't sway in the wind I've forgotten what the open road is like, I drove these roads when I was a kid not knowing I would traverse these same roads older and no more wiser,only knowing the road as "going to work" now road conditions matter and its "maybe I shouldn't go out tonight because the roads are bad" not "I'll figure it out after I'm done having fun". Fun.. how did I do that before? I didn't drink, I didn't smoke, so what did I do before this life of intoxication and crutches started helping my limp.

#poetry #writing #mine #poem

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Your late 20s are not old and there is still lots of time left at 26 or 27 or 30. You haven't wasted your potential. Not me tho im running out of time by the day

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the world is a very frightening and confusing place if you are an 11 pound house cat with no responsibilities and an endless supply of food and water and affection and enrichment

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“I am homesick for a place I am not sure even exists. One where my heart is full. My body loved. And my soul understood.”

— Melissa Cox

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Your late 20s are not old and there is still lots of time left at 26 or 27 or 30. You haven't wasted your potential. Not me tho im running out of time by the day

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The loneliest firework display by Hubble Space Telescope / ESA

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everyone needs a nostalgic hidden creek where u go to remember who u are and where you’ve been

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— Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice

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What the Living Do, Marie Howe