Conversations with a drunk

Once again, this is a conversation in between two people with narration mixed in. I really tend to make characters with a very singular purpose and this poem is about a drunk and conscience. The bartender doesn't so much represent anything physical so much as conscience in general. Not too much more to say. This is a rather difficult poem to perform because not only am I switching characters, but voices and personalities. The drunk speaks in slurred speech of course, the bartender goes from stern to teary, and the narration mixed in. Try to keep those voices in mind when you read. Enjoy

If he said he wasn't drunk
he lied
no one can take
10 beers

"Well it's time to go
the bar is closed.
Last call
ten minutes ago."

"Hold on!"
the bartender said to the man
"give me your keys,
you're too drunk to drive."

The man held up his keys
and mockingly said, "oh you mean these?"
The bartender smiled and said, "sir,
You know you are too drunk to drive."

"I'm not too drunk (hiccup) to do nothing"
"Well your terrible grammar shows your drunk"
"I'll be fine."
"Give me the keys," the bartender insisted.

"What are you going to be?" the drunk says with a laugh
The bartender pulls out a gun and says, "I'll have your ass."
The drunk stood there
and thought

He was perplexed
Not knowing what to do next
"Give me the keys," said the bartender
as he raised the gun

"Fine, ok, you win
Here's my keys," he said with a grin
He held out the keys
for the bartender to take

why such a rhye look?
the bartender thought as he took
they keys
away from the drunk

The bartender stepped back
and with himself aghast
he saw the barrell
of his own gun

In the exchange of keys
the bartender didn't give heed
to his gun
which now pointed at him.

"Oh how the tables have turned,"
he said in a drunken slur
"Now,
give me my keys."

one million thoughts rushed through the bartender's head
and something inside the bartender said
If he gets those keys
He will kill someone.

"I am fine
and I can drive,"
he said
"So give me the keys!"

"I am sorry, I can't give them to you
I can see the poor girl that you will drive right through
I cannot give you the keys,"
the bartender said in his tears

He raised the gun
and prnounced a drawn out number "1"
"You have until 3
to give me the keys"

After 1 came 4
and the bartender was sure
that he
could not have his keys

but the bartender would die
and the battle for nigh
because he
would get his keys

As much as the bartender knew
that the situation was through
the bartender had to decide
the means

The bartender could be killed by the man
the keys ripped from his hands
and the little girl
would still die

or the bartender could be released
just give him the keys
and the girl
would still die

"1..........2.........."
He started to count in order and the bartender knew
next would be three
He had to make a decision

The drunk got to three
and the bartender held the keys
two people were murdered that night
by one man

A child, by a car unseen
and a lonely bartender, whose conscience was clean.

Bad poem about bad poetry

I am writer of poetry (poet to me just has too many negative connotations like a long cigarette and a beret.) who hates the majority of poetry and as such, I have written several pieces criticizing styles of poetry and stereotypes of people who write them. I shower daily, don't have locks, don't smoke weed, and have never owned a bongo drum (actually a lie, and old girlfriend bought me one as a joke). This poem more than anything is about the really crappy poetry that 15 year old guys give to their girlfriends.

He writes her bad poetry
so she can see
that he is so massively in love
with her

but his writing is sub-par
and doesn't go far
into any form of romanticism
just a look of disgust

it was a nice try
she says as she sighs
but your rhymes are atrocious
and the whole writing just lacks

He writes them with all love intended
and with a kiss he seals and sends them
but his heart doesn't make up for the fact
that his ideas are hackneyed and wrong

if she could see the heart behind the trash
she wouldn't have been so brash
in saying that, in all honesty
his writing was terrible

She couldn't understand the jumbled phrases
the words in between the spaces
and so she said
that this doesn't make any sense

to him she said
you're better off dead
because your love
means absolutely nothing to me

when he misinterpreted what was heard
feeling were hurt
and he said that there would never be
another love poem written

again with miscommunication
her summation
was that he would stop writing
the terrible poetry

but what he meant was goodbye
and with his final sigh
he left, with his crappy words
on white paper

never to bother her again
never to write another line
of things that he thought
were love.

Cut

The following poem is definitely not representative of my writing as a whole (too melodramatic), but it's worth posting for that reason alone. I never performed poems like this because they don't translate well into spoken word (it's not exciting or funny), but certainly a well constructed poem (rhyme scheme). The only real critique I have is that I don't particularly like this type of poem, it being serious as opposed to ridiculous.

I now understand why people cut
It seems necessary when life hurts enough
Things are stressful and times are tough
That is why, I now cut

A needle to my skin
makes me grin
I know it's sin
but it's how I cope

Life is hard
my skin is scarred
I need physical pain
to match the inward

It hurts so good
it's a pleasure
makes me forget
Gives me something I can fix

I can stop the blood
but when emotions flood
I can't fix
what I cannot see

Now my lucky charms
are the marks on my arms
doing permanent harm
but it works for now

I now understand why people cut
Its an easy answer when life is tough
when I think I've had enough
I just take out my blade and cut.

A Junkies Dream

I don't think that personal experience should ever limit a writer. In contrast, I think that writing can be limited by personal experience. I wanted to dip my toe in drug writing, but it's limited by my total lack of experience with drugs. The writing all around is weak (there is no getting around it, but if I only posted the perfect poems that I have written, the blog would be pretty empty). The ending needs a lot of work. You may have realized by now my style of writing. I like creating characters, and I like destroying them. Very few of my characters survive my writing.

On the street a junkie wait for his fix
His mind now playing tricks
He thinks he sees his dealer up the street
but it's only a mirage the drugs make him think

Soon the itching starts
clawing at his track marks
He craves a needle to break his skin
to make him whole again

His mind now filled with the sounds of reality
Again the pains of life he's beginning to see
Everything is becoming blindingly clear
and now returns the fear

What if he he has to face reality today?
What if the dealer never comes his way?
How is he going to take it
without any drugs to make it

all ok?
Apparitions appear
and innumerable voices he hears
He can no longer trust his senses

His perceptions, nothing more than a series of guesses.
I can see something
my dealer's coming
He will bring me hope

but nope
Just seomthing else he can see and hear
that when comes close, disappears
He's beginning to see friends long since lost

entering into his own personal holocaust
He begins to hit his head, forcefully against a concrete wall
to make it all
go away

reality makes no sound
now laying dead on the ground
from out of a gash on his head, the blood freely flows
soley because his dealer didn't show.