Posted in Advice, Comedy, Creative Writing, Dead, Drunk, Emotions, English Literature, Free Verse, Growing up, Humor, Humour, Hungover, illness, Love, Memories, Monologue, Poetry, Regret, Sarcasm, Spoken word, Stories, Student, Theatre, Writing

 Hungover on poetry

Hungover on poetry,

It’s wrapped around my eyes.

I’ve drank it buckets.

Now I see the Light.

Head pounding,

Eyes hurting,

Throat sore with speech,

My eyebags are dark.

Like images of words,

that I now see.

Was the poetry spiked?

 Did I lap up too many,

too quickly?

Yes.

Over too soon.

Did I trip over?

The words.

Did they  make a fool out of me?

Yes..

But I can’t remember a thing.

Words , oh words . Oh God please stop!

There’s  vomit  on the doorstep,

My shoes ,

My hair,

The clean bed sheets,

And the toilet seat.

I shouldn’t have mixed mixed  Carol Anne Duffy, with my own special brew.

Or let others give me shots of

Poems.

I should have closed my mouth

To stop the migraine.

The litre of water last night wasn’t enough.

To cure the poetry hang over.

Breakfast might make it better.

Still more words .

On the box.

Sickness is growing and I can’t stop the din.

The words are louder, 

Caving in.

Dead on my bed, 

I can’t find the cure.

Drink some more poetry.

That might stop the sore.

Posted in Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, English Literature, Love, Love letters, Marriage, Monologue, Poetry, Regret, Relationship, Stories, Writing

Valentine

I’m not giving you a heart or a beautifully penned poem.

Wrapped in a brown parcel;

  an onion.

Like the moon shedding light onto your darkened world.

Multi layered, complex , hard to unravel the mysteries of a woman.

 You peel trying to undress her;

Feeling the curves of her smooth bottom, breasts, hips. Undressing love, until there is nothing but a twig.

Shatter her in half.

You will feel the sting burn your eyes. Tears. Trembling reflection.

The fiery kiss will leave you with an urge for more. An addiction;

 Leaving her breath , the taste of her love on your mouth for days.

Faithful, like we are.

As long as we both are.

Shrink  it to a wedding ring, if you want.

Leaving the perfumed scent on your fingers for eternity.

Everlasting.

Murderous.

Clinging to you.

 Your life.

Your knife.

~SS