I Had A Nice Time

This ain’t no poem unless the rhymes come by themselves I guess a bunch of words one next to the other and not even one I’ll remember in the morning when I’ll wake up alone in my room telling myself I won’t ever do it again but Hemingway said to write when you’re drunk so I got attached to that bottle too fast just to slow my heart down and sometimes I drink cause I’m cold sometimes cause my heart is so please get me another drink that is blue that is you that I will throw up in my clueless mess of déjà vu I take a sip of it with my index pointing to my eye knowing beforehand this alcohol is coming out as tears because in a room full of people the sound of words isn’t enough to fill this void and I feel like the phrases on your cigarettes because the only ones who talk to me want to kill themselves but I just need someone to love not someone to show to obtain other love I can’t hold onto which is the real reason I am intoxicated your passive smoke and the fact that I’d give up my blood for these people but they’d end up poisoned for the way I wished their presence was enough and their thoughts didn’t matter this acoustic medicine should make me feel better but I can’t understand it I hate that I’m perceived getting better at things you can’t see and I want to like Dostoyevsky and now my fifth glass of wine is talking to me saying “aren’t you happy? you’ll finish the poem tonight!” they whisper about me “she writes for pleasure what a freak” alcohol used to erase it made it worse nothing works like scrunching the paper till it bleeds then I have to pretend I’m in this reality again and I feel like the plus one life is all about zillions of possibilities and me not being here wouldn’t change any of them so why are you? It’s not like you to search for someone to hear your mess I just feel like I need to be sad to compensate for everyone’s happiness so I wanted to see the view one last time with you smoking on me before flying away the possibility you’ll send me home noticing no matter where I’m gonna be alone the party is not calling me the moon is both knowing it’s the same if we’re not there and I came just because this noise utters the one in my mind overthinking every smile and scared that once on my own I’ll find out I’m not a good person so another Friday same old shit went to a party called it a week just to be like Archilochus at the end the balance of life is being sad after a party or during and then leaving relieved the danger of the streets is nothing compared to everything and I’m on the sidewalk thinking “I miss him. I actually miss him” but he’s a book character and this holes in Rome make me look like the stereotype of a writer every time you take a step ahead the world lets you down and these cars coming back act like my passion what I am truly afraid of besides the silhouettes behind me lies I use to get back to my place where loneliness hurts like hell but at least I’m a good writer and if it hurts your parents it’s good poetry an assessment criterion Woolf didn’t admit see how there’s a method in her madness? Although I’m terrified, all these words could mean nothing to someone else now only my reflection in the mirror is talking and I loved it when we wore masks that covered half of my face except my eyes that I like cause they look like someone I’m not saying “in a week of starving five glasses of wine ago you had that gracious glow” I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I wish you couldn’t see me God I don’t even know who I am talking to but being a phantom sounds peaceful I should get on the top of the building with you in my mind then kill the thought one way or another