Content warning: mentions drugging
This one's another old one
Surrounded,
Bound,
Wound tight with the pals,
You'd always called friends,
Whose hands had pulled you up,
And out of danger a thousand times round.
But now,
They are clowns;
With disguises that discount the past,
Soft palms to sharp claws,
That claw at the top,
Of brown liquor bottles,
And so they drown and drown.
One slaps you,
She says "drink,"
With a sly wink,
As she stuffs a hand in her pocket,
And the bottle starts to fizz,
Like a hungry hyena finally fed.
You hear their words,
"Drink, drink, drink,"
And, "pink, ink, dink,"
For those who think,
They're two sips down at twenty one bottles drowned.
And that's it,
You leave the circus,
Before you've drunk a drink,
With pride and pleasure,
And no sore head to remember thereafter.
YOU ARE READING
Waiting for the Rain to Fall
PoetryPoems that twine thread around the broken bits of a soul, that fling umbrella lips into beaming buckets and kind of just make you want to say, "life is beautiful, isn't it?" - a totally unbiased review from me, the author.
