#445
Tonight,
i’m going to get drunk.
Tomorrow,
i might write about it.
Maybe
sooner.
Maybe
not.
#446
How sweet,
that bitter bit,
that splash
of angry red,
the whine
caught in my throat,
how comforting,
the blanketing rose,
the violent
pop of a cork,
from the heal of my shoe,
hammered against
the concrete, to a
sweet bath from the bottle,
drowning in sunshine,
as the waves lap against the
shore, hurtled from the sea.
#447
i write music
so that you can
beat the living shit
out of your own
personal demons,
with a song or two
to toast your efforts
afterwards.
That, and of course,
forever and always,
for her.
#448
As i read on
i wondered if
she could ever write of me,
the way she wrote
of her heroes.
Do i have it?
That zest, that zeal,
the courage that sends
her pen scurrying?
Did she write these pages
for one to follow and rise?
A story, a question, a call?
Between her words sits
a beacon worth striding for.
#449
What a shame,
a hypocrisy,
that i write to
get you to think
about things,
when sometimes,
i don’t myself,
at least not enough.
Thanks for joining! Find poems through out the week on my instagram @monsieurwrite
Don’t forget to check out the poems being recited on The Write Stuff podcast!
Take care, call your family, tell them you love them.
wazoo!
-Mr. Write