Eyes of serpentine

the grip of each day grow's tighter... my head keeps feeling lighter..
my heart is falling too heavy to bare.. my throat is clenching..
i'm sorry.. I think I need air... why did you ever bother to care...? 
intoxicated by your gaze.. I don't regret not keeping our distance...
but I didn't know how much I would miss the way your eyes looked, subtle & penetrating, before we'd kiss..
I could sit with you for hours..
watching your hand rolled cigarette burn..
smoke elevates to the corners of your ceiling..
no longer am I granted with such a simply wonderful feeling.
I don't need you anymore!
.. but i'll always be there, to care.. even if you think i'm not.. 
no matter how far out I could be.. doesn't matter who you're with.. 
my love isn't blind.. so don't think I can't see..
the distance between us now means nothing to me.

Shots of Quick

Hello climes of Sarasota,
your sun has beckoned unto me.
Stuck among the scraping skies,
these monitors keep flickering.
It's been twelve hours, maybe more,
since I'd rested head upon the table.
My friend with cleavage berated me
towards an end. Of course I'm able
to comprehend her words and course
of action through she'd escalate.
Despite all that it's hard to tell
how much of this I hesitate
to really, truly, fully know;
to take on in to my digestion.
I question what may be demand,
and what of it is pure suggestion.
I hate these throes of miser's woe;
these shackles of the past in tow
that keep me drunk on gravity -
pressues of the live let be.
And yet my thrashing is impotent -
while shedding weight may bring me joy,
the problems solved have nothing gathered
to draw the man out from the boy.
I'll cling to me, my cat, my home
and borrow change from friend and neighbor
to sling a touch of green and garden,
and liquid nitro to which I cater
to blind myself to all my failings,
my many, sorted, sordid brunts;
eventually I'll have exhausted
all my needs, and all my wants.

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Bar Bin Ballooning

He stood at the bar, drunk but not stinking,
and through blur of mead, found himself thinking
"They're all so damn pretty, every last one.
With every bend they're unwound or undone.
Would curves turn to meet me if I'd spoken aloud?
Or would they just leave me and return to their crowd?"

He pawed at his glass and nodded a moment,
speaking to spirits of love and atonement;
just then a spectre walked into his gaze -
her image a saber that mangled his haze.
Her face was familiar, her body attentive,
he struggled to speak with words so inventive.

Just then another would draw both his eyes,
and then a new dozen would catch his surprise.
They poured in by numbers that boggled and bored.
Despite such duplicity, their looks he adored.
And when at long last, their coming had calmed,
he sat to observe and nursed on his grog.

While deep in the swatch he bathed in their majesty,
composing with words all new forms of flattery.
The skull of the poet that's hinged on his spine
would seek to fulfill his lackings with lines.
The words that may leak from smoke or the sink
may posit the key to all things he seeks.

With locks of persona, containment of truth,
that springs into motion while abiding his youth;
he drifts at a leisure while swiveling stools,
against all the oak and inebriant pools.
Head lays on counter, he's dozing and pink,
he ends the fortuity by spilling his drink.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Why do I do my best writing while hungover at work?

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