tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-177043332024-03-28T23:28:10.059-04:00Sad Poems : Alcoholic Poet<strong>Think. Write. Drink. Sad Poetry by Alcoholic Poet.</strong>alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comBlogger3444125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-34700094405120315942024-03-28T23:27:00.000-04:002024-03-28T23:27:36.752-04:00Sad Poems: Temporary Conditions names in the distance. scattered in all directions. the wind gathers its coins. eager to spend us. the darkness counts out loud. delicate flesh bent by gravity's whims. open zippers on time's trembling wrists. stain tomorrow's tattered dress. the animals claw at the math. the end of the world in lingering hiccups. the predator is tamed not by the struggle. but rather thealcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-7890245489487225202024-03-25T23:33:00.000-04:002024-03-25T23:33:45.666-04:00Knots in the Continuumwear the algorithms of shame. in a kaleidoscope of choices. explore the broken skin. they're not wounds. but rather entry points. the weight of the world pivots. and we lose our balance. hidden in quiet rooms where we leave the light on. though the doors remain locked. time chews on the distance. and we find ourselves abandoned. a fading scar in someone else's palm.looking in alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-80844255926871979742024-03-19T23:20:00.002-04:002024-03-21T22:42:07.326-04:00Sad Poetry: Fortunate Fictions steps become us. seized by the places we've been. pages torn from a stranger's flesh. stained by the choices we've made. wear the world in its ugly epidemic. every corner dirtier than we left it. time trembles. stale crumbs in yesterday's throat. strays caught in love's elegant noose. the map unfolds. a ravenous predator. with fangs made of trust. our stories told alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-63309878128729559012024-03-16T22:56:00.001-04:002024-03-16T22:56:00.140-04:00The Integrity of Want say their names. silt escaping from the bedrock. a panic of truths drawing insolvent maps. we are mourned. by discarded lovers and absent gods. sandpaper chaffing against the epiphany of loss. no blood. just the arrogant cautions of flesh. as life consents to something smaller. now we are transformed. chewed like candy by the remnants of dying wish. time ignites. in a alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-50385823063599046182024-03-13T00:09:00.001-04:002024-03-13T00:09:30.914-04:00Sad Poetry: The Earnest Contraptions of Fleshwe are quiet as the world moves to forget. our bodies dance to the subtle rhythm of time's dirty engine. while our minds struggle to keep pace. we watch the sky fall. as it often does. confident in our ability to prop it up. but the world ends just the same. we are silent as we put our signatures on the disaster. muted by the epidemic of want.we listen as gravity catalogs itsalcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-61928045693931294882024-03-06T23:22:00.000-05:002024-03-06T23:22:04.239-05:00Sad Poems: Decaying Motivesthe crutch whispers. hobbled thieves stumble over each other. in pursuit of why. the taste of how. both sweet and sour. in the seldom anesthesia of touch. we are catapulted from our hunger. worn by choices dense enough to drown us. our voices exhumed. like corpses from neglected graves. raw faces desperate for skin. the monsters more melody than dissonance. the humble alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-51458712279038329502024-03-03T00:11:00.001-05:002024-03-03T00:11:00.129-05:00A Wardrobe of Strangerswhat was I before I was us. some minor fraction of time strangled by an errant decimal. my lingering time machines still humming. idle catastrophes more skin than meat. a quiet apocalypse of orphans and corpses. what have I become. a long series of numbers. each preceding sum depreciating into the next. atoms in the void corrupted by life's poison nucleus. thirsty dolls alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-91941430321416500032024-02-28T00:11:00.001-05:002024-02-28T00:11:00.240-05:00Sad Poems: Particle Physics solve for when. swept by the artifacts of expectation. stained in the color of common thieves. we consent to these minor apocalypses. unmoved by the collapse. the world keeps counting. the shattered dolls. as we collect their severed limbs. the distance chokes. on our stubbornness.slips of skin like blank paper. wait for the ink to tell. we spend the coins that remain. alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-56649487294566234042024-02-22T23:17:00.001-05:002024-02-22T23:33:03.277-05:00The Names We Give Themshe chased the receding folds. endemic conspirators of lust and ache. her fingers soft as she struggled to hold. the heavy corpses that filled her memory. the beginning is supple. a lush drizzle of tastes. addictive whispers daring us to hear. how obvious we are. simple primates in an endless war with conceit. blunt knives stalking barren landscapes. the middle is dense. all alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-39706311545058031042024-02-19T00:10:00.001-05:002024-02-19T00:10:00.194-05:00Tepid Fires narrow angles wear our choices. skin folds. the stale vanity of broken men. the lies build their trembling houses. and we paint their walls in vinegar and smiles. the tortoise is lost. discarded by the race. the hare is dead. tell tomorrow to stop counting. the world is crippled. the sky has fallen. turn the ignition on these bodies. choke on the exhaust. time places itsalcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-50810189886675460272024-02-15T00:17:00.020-05:002024-02-22T22:32:56.869-05:00Sad Poetry: Fickle Predators stolen names fail the surge. we wear the storm. travelers on candy bridges. suffocating in our quiet epiphanies. skin like knives. screaming because our words are missing. the chaos flaunts its colors. an explosion of choices. the pieces quiver. caught in gravity's noose. the obvious monsters polish their horns. touch is a strict accountant. calculating alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-42486332789605472312024-02-12T00:12:00.006-05:002024-02-12T00:12:00.148-05:00Sad Poems: Assembling Tomorrowwhere we are. tunnels in the throat of time. who we are. spiders spinning solitude's web. we stand at the end of the world. tempted by the precipice. we kneel at gravity's feet. primates strangled by evolution's threads. . it's the world we know that undoes us. touch's wilted flowers left to rot. it's a pebble in an open fist. a lie that lingers. even alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-71986307630921470702024-02-09T23:15:00.003-05:002024-02-09T23:15:00.333-05:00Pythagoras' Paradoxit was old before it was young. the face of time. its calloused grin. its tenuous thirst for what we call life. we chase the miles. strays in ragged collars. our leashes cut. we wear the math. a feast of choices subrogating to a frenzy of touch. the machine is assembled. its engine stirs. a beast condemned to the infinite measure of a promise. our fingers keep count. our eyes alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-36677195664821646852024-02-09T23:15:00.001-05:002024-02-09T23:15:00.332-05:00Sad Poems: Gravity's Contritionsomething furtive resembling how. obtuse corners in long corridors sing out loud. the kitten's claws are sharp, but easily broken. the king's crown sparkles only when the sun shines. something presumed lost. abruptly found. the monsters have their mayhem. the heroes have their blades. but time is still that cotton in our lungs. tomorrow fetches its pennies alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-30052046123245062052024-02-05T23:31:00.001-05:002024-02-05T23:31:00.132-05:00Sad Poems: A Very Particular Arithmetichow quickly our choices expire. our story told mostly by strangers. spun by the colors of expectation. we fumble in time's empty pockets. searching for purchase on this slippery stage. actors in the sickly skins of love. carelessly naming every stray. daggers worn by touch. dulled by years of friction. little dogs in an oligarchy of skin. chasing phantom alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-59769788939501635072024-02-02T23:38:00.002-05:002024-02-02T23:38:00.256-05:00Navigational Errorslife emerges through a shallow cut in the skin of time. bodies conflate into a puzzle unsolved. the machine is awoken. coaxed by bone and blood. the dead throw their matches. into vacant rooms.the hounds chew on their leashes. as their prey discovers its fangs. we fumble over our maps. caught in the creases. alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-4830776705706875982024-01-31T23:10:00.001-05:002024-01-31T23:10:00.159-05:00Dark Poetry: Idyllic Proliferations swiftly time penetrates. burrowing deeply into existing wounds. choice the reluctant narrator. as our lives confound us. blood a stubborn piston. that drives the engine. we stumble. our voices swallowed up in its relentless gears. humbled by its power. we calculate life in cuts and scrapes. and the frail arithmetic of love's timeless anarchy. we know that the world alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-42910649063952701192024-01-29T00:03:00.001-05:002024-01-29T00:03:00.131-05:00Places We've Visited shame the darkness. it knows too much of our desires. we are compelled by trundles of loss. uneven gods groping at the cold confectionaries of time. the sugar melts. a sweet purgatory tear the corner. scrape the edge. those choices race through us. collision after collision. we're tender. all covered in lies. we're students. awash in all these pieces. all our alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-65680310005321304092024-01-26T23:22:00.002-05:002024-01-26T23:22:00.139-05:00Sad Poetry: Fouling Metaphors every breath is a betrayal. her embrace. all its fragile monsters. like unsweetened chocolate and forgotten bee stings.casual gods. carving paradise from stale coffee and cigarette butts.we are an abundance of spaces. with no way inside them. we are a dry cough on the lips of eternity. no cure. only the sharp salinity of collapsing silence.the choke of time. all used condoms and barking alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-7892833036054842562024-01-23T23:33:00.001-05:002024-01-23T23:33:00.139-05:00Simple Ironiesleave the world behind. we're only abbreviations after all. temporary bridges over permanent voids. time counts in fevers. a parody of open wounds. our skin is loud. but touch doesn't listen. speak softly. seldom questions chase the shadows. distance does its dirty math. as we casually keep count. travelers in empty masks. the truth is a commodity. sometimes a profit. more alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-84957498045297605652024-01-19T23:53:00.001-05:002024-01-20T00:08:00.952-05:00Sad Poems: The Costtabulate the wager. the numbers wear us. all the debts this skin has accumulated. warm beds and cruel dismissals. open sores and soft caresses the cost ours to calculate. wear the cold. like a tattered blanket. shiver through the rages of consent. time chews softly on the glass. as we count the raindrops. the world is raw. all scabs and broken skin. we alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-87585996282279749612024-01-15T23:16:00.002-05:002024-01-15T23:16:00.226-05:00Sad Poetry: The Whims of Gravitysay her name. she is the stranger that wears your face. time's jaws open wide. we are the feast. breathe on the glass. let it steal our voices. words are only thieves. chase the silence. as it hunts the strays. paint the stairs. with dirty footprints. the ceiling will come to us. say her name. assume the luxury of her skin. temptation cocks its gun. the target alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-8753323813675198872024-01-12T22:53:00.001-05:002024-01-12T22:53:00.302-05:00Simple Subtractionwear the creases. turn the folds.negotiate the ugly lineage of plastic gods. gamble the caution. of temporary promises. spoil the confessions of sober skin. the lines that draw us. are more pencil than ink. ride the machine. tease the gears. peel the flesh from gravity's bones. we measure time in how little we have left. we define distance by how far we've come.alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-24900285005938392212024-01-10T23:18:00.009-05:002024-01-10T23:18:00.158-05:00Sad Poems: Artificial Lightlet the rain fall. tomorrow is the broken glass upon which we tread. time taps a vein and bleeds into our throats. a chameleon. a dictator. and a liar. let the rain fall. hope is the sickness that wears our faces. the machine bites its gears. as the truth unwinds. choices form like icicles. hope is the stones in our pockets. as the flood calls our name. time draws its alcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17704333.post-15054213863436538192024-01-08T00:16:00.002-05:002024-01-08T00:16:00.181-05:00Several Centuries of Stale Religion no beautiful lies to coddle. nor torn seams to mend. the world is undone in too many places. we are consumed by the distance. patient soldiers with all our bullets on the floor. we are trapped. all the exits blocked. blood comes and goes. all temporary windows in permanent prisons. dolls with faces made of wonder. leaving their claws in tender stones. the tastealcholic poethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11933546638775487633noreply@blogger.com