Life In A Bottle (rough draft)

You remind me of working in a brewery
A job that everyone thinks that they want, But after a while they realize that long hours, low pay, and not nearly enough free booze start to wear you
I used to stare at the bottles
It was the best part of my day, walking into work every single morning and seeing each one perfectly arranged in rows
A beautiful mosaic of what alcoholism can truly amount to
Reflecting on it makes me think of the first time that I saw your eyes
You were standing in your kitchen, drink in hand, swaying back and forth as if you were attempting to balance on top of the bottles in which you had found your purpose in that night
Poise and grace are not the words which come to mind when I describe you in that moment in time.
But then you unfolded those bottlecap lids, and let the light shine off of them how it was truly meant to
Your eyelashes formed a perfect crimping around the edges made for a purpose for which few care to understand
In the end however it was those eyes that betrayed you
The longer I stared into them the more that I started to notice the rest of you
Bottle slim frame perfectly adorned in clothing placed meticulously about it
And while your long neck wore it well to me it looked almost more like a label that someone had carelessly slapped on you
Who told you that in order to be accepted to had to cover over your imperfections?
When did you allow the world to slap that label onto you?
Did you resist it when they put you onto that shelf spinning you so the label would be straight in line with all the others staring out into the world from a sea of identical faces
How long will you wait for someone to come, pick you out of the crowd and take you home, all the while you pray that they won't just simply consume you and toss you aside like all the others
Your friends can tell when they look at you that when someone spends enough time staring at the bottom of an empty bottle it eventually becomes home
And the only way out is to make a crack, but I don't know if you have the strength to do that

Arthur

In my life, I have one regret, my son.
I still remember the first time I held you
Your mother placed you into my hands and said, "he looks like you"
It was if God himself gave me a ball of clay and told me
Create something in your own image, a better version of yourself
I tried, again and again
But eventually those attempts turned to frustration
And from that frustration came anger
I began to beat my fists into you over and over attempting to make your surface more malleable to my will
But with the hollow thud of each strike I was only reminded of my failure
My boy what have I done?
You became my greatest fears
A man who does not know how to show emotion
Who cannot share his struggles with his friends
And refuses help from everyone. even his family
I tried to show you that I was doing better,
Tried to prove that I had turned my life around
But every time I did, I was met by your stone silence
It was as if your back had become the bricks
Your neck and joints, the mortar long since hardened to my touch
Your face, that of a gargoyles, immobile to the one that would seek to call you Son
Your sister, has become my only way of communication with you
I tell her to let you know that I love you and in return she tells me that you are doing well despite it all
She says that you have turned your friends into a new family
They look to you when they are in need and that you are their triumphant protector
I just wish i could have been yours
Someone told me once, l0ng ago
That every saint, in order to live forever in stone has its demons that it must conquer
I guess, that it what I am for my son










but the greatest above all else is how I treated my boy. I have lost count of how any years it has been since I have spoken to him, since I heard his voice. I've tried to tell him that I am doing better, tried to show him that I have turned my life around, yet every time I se a cold, wall of stone. Honestly I cannot blame him though, with all that I did to him he never said a word. All he did was remain stone silent. I forced my son to become that, A man who does not know how to show any negative emotion. A man who des not tell anyone about his struggles in his life and refuses help from anyone. I turned him into my greatest fears. My brother tells me that that he is doing well though. His friends look to him when they are in need, they are his family, and he is their triumphant protector. I wish I could have been his. I can't quite remember where I heard this but I was once told that every saint has its demon to fight against. I guess that is what I am for my son.

Now Untitled

This is the massive edit from the piece I put up last week. Let me know how you like the changes.


Once again I am walking down an alley in the city
Stumbling like a child learning to take its first steps
Muscles cramp as I take a leap, mind exploding as I soar
But in reality I know that I am broken
Black heart fueled by, the booze, the women, the writing
In this moment I have lost the ability to be Respnsible
On the fire escape, paint in hand, my brain has wandered
Now on life's tilt a whirl, morality has left me and taken with it thoughts of
Rent, work, my girlfriend, my family
Each one falls to the wayside like the rungs beneath my feet
My body aches
Mind jolting back to life
Pavement
Pain
I have fallen again
Silently I pray nobody saw
Yet with the cackling of a bum lke a scavenger filled on its latest meal of decay, the truth finds me
God damn crows
I take a step and collapse
Body elelctrified by pain
Wet fingers
Blood
Vomit
I feel death
Wobbly waltzing into the street a cab driver swerves to avoid me
Suddenly sober, cememted to reality by the brightness of headlights, the train of understanding cuts me in two
Entrails spill out and begin to flow away
Tied to me by the umbilical cord of my
Responsibility
Helpless, I lay down in the gutter and close my eyes one last time
Opening them slowly I see a darkened room
Monitor quietly beeping the sad serenade of my heartbeat
I'm alive
Dammit
I have been here for months
Dreaming
Fighting
Waiting for sleep to finally claim me

Find. Michael Jordan

This is a piece from a writing prompt some friends and I did. Historical Figure on one side of a piece of paper, pass to the left, verb on the other, pass left. Person 3 writes a piece including both. I got Michael Jordan and find.

I find myself walking down an alley in the city, drunkenly stumbling like a child taking its first steps. But inside my mind I am getting air like Jordan. Muscles cramp as take a leap, mind exploding in joy as I soar. Yet in reality, I am broken. Black heart taken away by booze, women, pens and paper, in this moment, I have lost the ability to be responsible. As I grasp the fire escape, paint in hand, my brain wanders from things of that nature. Rent, work, my girlfriend, each one falls to the wayside as if they were the rungs beneath my feet. Suddenly, my body aches and my mind jolts back to life. Pavement. Pain. I have fallen again. Stumbling up quickly I silently pray nobody saw me, but from the sound of a bum cackling like a scavenger filled on its latest find I know the truth. God damn crows. I attempt to take a step and collapse. Legs no longer willing to work, I'm on life's tilt a whirl. Eyes wide. Wet fingers. Blood. Vomit. I feel like death. Waltzing wobbly into the street a cab driver swerves to avoid me, I just stare into the headlights suddenly sober. As i f i was tied to the tracks the train of understanding cuts me in two. Entrails spilling out, I can see them falling in my body to the street as if it were a stream. The umbilical cord of my, Responsibilities. Helpless, I lay down in the gutter and close my eyes. Opening them once more I see a darkened room. Monitor quietly beeping the rhythm of my heart. Alive. Damn. I have been here for months. Dreaming. Fighting. Slipping into death. A nurse walks in, informing me its time for another round of kemo, and I groan softly.