Letting It All Out - a poem from 'Words Are Just Words'
1By the way, sorry about the audio quality. I was trying so hard to balance everything but I may have lost the battle a little bit. So i'm going to write the poem out here for everyone if there is a huge problem
Letting It All Out
Letting It All Out-
Sometimes I hiccup and stutter.
Sometimes I vomit and mutter.
But it's all because sometimes I journey
to the tip of the bottle
and then I take a trip to the toilet
with my stomach running full throttle
and get on my knees as if I’m praying to God
but my Lord’s a drunken facade
and then I nod,
with a splendid eruption.
Now I end my introduction.
The booze, bellowing, they ring again signaling the tickling swell
The bile moves like a thunderous hell,
burning up my dignity in a venomous spell.
With dry heaving, the dry tongue weaving,
the cold sweat stinging
the tears from my eyes are screaming
and I’m bleeding out my mouth
the red cherry, blue berry, bubblegum, rum chata vodka.
But it’s a better deal when you make a meal
out of a bottle with a cheaper label
and I’m ready and able to prove
my point.
Don’t you scoff
at dollar store knock off
because brand names are the chumps game and
true fame is found at the bottomed up bottle
from bottom shelf that I found myself passed out
last night, on the sticky tiled floor of the liquor store.
But I wanted more, and feeling like a whale washed ashore,
I bar hopped till the puke stopped
my flow to go to the bogo solo cup bargain
at the nearest bar again.
Then I threw up all over a blonde girl's’ cardigan
and then I saw stars within my eyes when
she slapped my face to look like the unhappy of mask
of a thespian harlequin.
Sometimes I dribble spittle onto the floor,
the spit mixed with mixers, French fries, and so much more.
Sometimes I gag, sometimes I hack, spew, and drag
myself into another gutter.
Sometimes I hiccup and stutter.
Sometimes I vomit and mutter.
But sometimes I regret the fate in the pit of my stomach,
brewing up some trouble under a thousand burning bubbles
making me shaking, quaking my bowels of reinforced agony.
Of course, my discourse is just word vomit but I’m on it
I’m ready to purge.
Does it mean I’m a problem child if my problems are mild?
I’m just wild,
carefree and hair styled to the speed of my strut
because naturally the bachelor in me is a bastard
dastardly sexy
slurring up to the girls flying on the backs of the
Grey Goose and Hennessy,
while I’m drinking anything that get me
stumbling like a zombie.
Somebody please save me
but all the pretty babies
are taking headshots of tequila and Cognac,
and after I’ve double-tapped my brain with Jack.
It’s deliriously real
all leading to a trembling slumber
that I get when I get that last girls number.
And maybe this time I’ll wear a rubber but if not
I’ll chalk it up to another drunken blunder and
wait for the aroma of a coma, so comatose the most
excellent splendor of a night I’ll never remember
and maybe I’ll try AA again next December.
As the last long line of sweet liquor hangs from my open lips, dangling down into my treasure chest of misery, I wonder if it’s all worth it, if I am going down the wrong path of broken bottles.
Sometimes I forget that an inner monologue isn’t just word vomit and I think that maybe I shouldn’t throw my conscious down the drain but then I look down into the toilet and remember that I’ve already flushed mine away.
I like to speak my poetry a lot for some reason. I'm not sure why but it just feels good to try and put myself out there. I don't want to lose my voice and hide behind the pages of my writing out of fear of rejection. I want to try it all.
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