Andrea's Blog
I can be a great writer
I feel it banging on the door of my skull
Trying to get down here to the tip of my pen
But goddamn when I really want it
It bars the door with a two-by-four and
All the begging won’t make ‘em come out
You know what brats like most?
Snacks-Like articles poems YouTube videos and podcasts
You know distractions
A release of self-contained pressure
hot and cold
chill and wavy
smiles come easier
so do tears
so does a wet wet and
wanting to hump the seat your ass is on
I keep telling myself I want to drink less
I keep pouring myself one more
it’s hard to cry when you don’t have a good excuse
life is a good excuse
alcohol is a better one
I don’t let it get out of hand
I have bills to pay and a responsible life to live
letting loose makes the ride a bit more exciting
compared to the drone of the nine-to-five
bumper-to-bumper sucky-fucky of the week
you know its true
so what if you get blackout drunk?
that’s what Gatorade and carbs are for
god, just feel it for once
let the water take you under and
feel the pulsing heart of the universe
I’ve felt it, its scary as fuck until you realize
the banging at the door is in your chest
it’s about you
look at yourself
who are you?
at the very least, you’re a beating heart
that’s a goddamn blessing
hug yourself and get drunk in the wave
In a bottle of tequila. Where is the happiness I asked for? Where is the confidence you promised?
I’m a more of a social alcoholic. It feels indigent and excessive to get wasted alone. At least if I pass out, someone will see me, hopefully help me, so I wont die. I’ve never been that drunk. I’ve never really thought I would die from alcohol poisoning. Its fun to exaggerate like, “Ahhhh, I’m so nauseous but I can’t get anything to come up!” I learned early on in my career that you have to take care of yourself. Your friends will be too drunk to help you.
Stumbling out of your friend’s car and up your steps, your mouth feels like a desert and your vision shifts like its wavy horizon. You’re so hungry your stomach feels as if its shriveling into a raisin. Jacket on the couch. Keys on the counter next to the key bowl. Shoes in the hallway. Shirt on the door knob. Skirt on the bedroom floor. Then, as if by magic, two bottles of red Gatorade and a pack of Saltines sit on your nightstand. Where did they-? Who did-? You scramble for the Gatorade with dilated eyes and moan as the cracking of the plastic seal. Thank you. The red ambrosia quenches your thirst and nourishes your body.
Who am I? Bearer of electrolytes. Breaker of bread. I am you. I am Genie.
I don’t like to sing, breath in while talking, or make otherwise unusual sounds with my mouth. Can I sing? No, and that’s part of it. The other part is the vulnerability. So much of yourself can be revealed when you sing, like one’s confidence or lack thereof.
When I sing, you create my voice and its whatever you want it to be. I don’t have to worry about you missing something because you can take it one word at a time.
My song is often a sad one that’s meant to cause discomfort, reflection, and inspire courage and strength. Those painful emotions well up when sung and I don’t want to see us cry. Take my art like a pill in the comfort of you home where the bed and booze are nearby.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/song/