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Alcohol induced poetry
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Pardon me
Pardon me for being depressed, slightly repressed and underdressed. I must confess I’m not your dream girl.
I’m not Elizabeth Barett Browning,
No I don’t live in that world.
There is no future in my past, and I sell out to that fact.
Pardon me for not doing my best,
And for drinking myself to death.
It’s so much fun though - can’t you tell?
Can’t you smell my happiness?
Aren’t you impressed by my charming wit?
Or can you see that I’m full of shit?
Can you see me in the morning, feeling sick?
Tuning out all voices and choices, not believing in regret.
Heaving out the poison that stirs in my gut…
What the fuck? What kind of crutch is this?
This isn’t working here. Yes it’s clear
To me for 20 seconds, or 20 years,
Living on welfare in Chicago somewhere,
Or dead in a ditch…somewhere.
There’s this strange girl in the mirror,
White as chalk- she talks to me
With heavy bags under her eyes.
You can bet that she feels pain somewhere,
But you won’t catch her asking why.
Pardon me for causing you stress,
For making a mess and not cleaning it up,
For throwing up all over the bathroom floor.
Pardon me for wanting more.
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Lover’s amalgam
Asleep. Passed out on the kitchen floor. No more thoughts,
No more leprechauns…No more. Know more.
“Move!” He says, “Go away! Stay!”
Kicking, shivering, quivering fear.
“Where did you go? Come here!”
I’m sorry, I can’t grow a tail,
But let me mail myself to you.
You can open me up and save me,
Stick me to your refrigerator sculpture.
Tear me open. Leave me bare,
I’m still not going anywhere.
I will sleep on the cold hard floor with you.
I will continue to adore you,
But I’ll still wake you up at 3am,
Screaming “No, not again!”
Don’t let me lose my only friend,
Dear God, don’t let this end.
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To everyone I ever let down or stood up
Dear dearest friends and trusting fools,
I am writing to apologize for using all
of you. It’s just that sometimes I get confused.
I start smoking CD’s and listening to crack,
and I’m not always sure where the phone is at.
OK, so that’s not true.
It’s like the other night when the boy bit
Off my finger, and the monsters figured me for
Some strange and hideous ghoul. So I excused
Myself to powder my nose and dispose of my
Clothes. The piss foam gathered in the middle
Of the bowl, and I swear it was hissing,
Whispering to me, “Go away ghoul, go!”
I don’t know. I am left here hate—wait! I
Already wrote that somewhere. I was supposed
To be somewhere at eight, or was that nine? But
Now it’s 10:15, and no, I’m not going anywhere!
Get out of my hair! Get out of my dreams! Get
Out of the skin shredding thread of my screams.
Perhaps I should have called, but I fall into
The rug, and I shrug and I say, “Oh well, it’s just
As well. I didn’t want to see him anyway, and I
Didn’t want to go to work today. I erase my guilty
Face with daydreams and seems of blanket demons.
I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Please accept
My sincerest apologies. I’d send this to you all,
But I won’t get the chance, and I don’t have the
Stamps anyway.
Yours,
Heidi
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