Wounded

They
say
you
shouldn’t
write
when
drunk

But
what
else
will
help
deal
with
this
funk?

At
least
beer
allows
me to
release
that
valve

And my
heart,
somewhere
along
the
line,
to
salve

‘Drink Me’

I
really
should
just stop
now

I am
totally
out of
control

It seems
I have
well and
truly
fallen

Down the
proverbial
rabbit
hole

No Fucks Given

I want
nothing
more

Than
to be
alone

With a
bottle
of booze

Sitting
in my
own home

With the
lights
down low

Listening to
my favorite
songs

Remembering
my
rights

And
justifying
my wrongs

Drunk

Looking in
the mirror
gives me
a fright,

But I think
I had a
good time
last night.

I don’t
remember
much or how
I got home,

Thank
fuck I’ve
woken up
alone.

The Trouble With Juniper

Nobody
knows
the
trouble
I’ve seen

The loves
and the
losses and
everything
in-between

On one
too many
gin bottles
I have
relied

To keep
all of my
secrets
hidden
inside

Camping

The warmth of the sun on your face,

The anticipation of a road trip with friends,

The promise of tall tales around the campfire.

It’s the little things that bring the most joy.

The Darkness

The darker nights are drawing in, 
not least those in my heart.

I should stop drinking bathtub gin,
now that would be a start.

Travel

It doesn’t matter where in the world you go.

How beautiful the country you visit,

How fascinating the people you meet,

How much booze you drink.

You can’t run away from your thoughts.

You might have a different view from your window but your soul will remain as black as the night sky and, beneath it all, you’ll still be the same fuck up you always were.

Travel solves nothing.

Two Day Hangovers

You can take a tablet to halt a head ache.
You can eat a sandwich to settle a queasy stomach.
You can sleep a while to revive your weary bones.

But the self loathing?

That shit lingers on inside your head for days. And there’s nothing you can do to help that.

God, hangovers are awful.

Booze (Pt 1)

I hope I find the answers I’m looking for at the bottom of this pint glass.

Otherwise putting make up on to leave the house tonight was a waste of time…

‘First Dates’

She awoke that morning to the sound of the bells. Those fucking incessant church bells that plagued her every Sunday morning. She opened one eye to the world and, as the daylight scorched her alcohol soaked retina, she quickly closed it again. Fucking tequila, she murmured. Never again. Yeah, right.

Then she remembered. Shit. She tentatively slid her hand across the mattress. She felt his presence before she heard his snore. Fucking tequila, she murmured again. Bollocks.

She took a deep breath and forced both of her eyes open to absorb the piercing light this time. The bells had stopped thank fuck. One less thing to deal with.

She sat up, carefully, and embraced the world. She wasn’t ready to wake the man whose name she had forgotten – or in truth had never known – just yet.

She crawled, with great difficulty, from the bed. Every bone feeling like a dead weight, she managed to pull last nights shirt over her head and stumble to the kitchen.

She took a glass from the draining board and filled it with ice cold water from the stainless steel tap. She revelled in the smooth taste cleansing her mouth, her throat and her head. She glugged down four paracetamol and proceeded to the bathroom to wash the lingering taste of the man from her mouth.

She looked at herself in the mirror. I look like I feel, she thought, and I feel like shit. Still, first things first. She needed to get this fucker out. Composing herself and her aching limbs she strode into the bedroom; clapping her hands loudly as she stepped.

‘Rise and shine sleeping beauty’ she croaked. ‘Time to go’. The mound of stale sweat, alcohol and drool lay motionless under the duvet. ‘I said come on motherfucker – move’. She shouted louder this time pairing her cry with a swift kick to what she hoped was his kidney area. The man whimpered as he rolled over on to his front.

‘Just come back to bed, babe’ he muttered sleepily.

‘Babe? Are you fucking shitting me mate? Just get the fuck out of my bed!’ She was shaking him now as he heaved himself upright. Dazed and confused he looked into her eyes, realisation slowly dawning that if he wanted to keep his testicles intact he’d better not argue. He hurriedly dressed as she shooed him out of the bedroom and pushed him out of the flat – the front door knocking him over as he pulled on his boots.

‘Well, thanks for that and everything. But I won’t be calling you again’ she snipped.

‘But, I..’ was all she heard before she slammed the door in his puzzled, but albeit pretty cute, face.

She stalked back to bed, vowing never to drink tequila again.
Yeah, right.