My Poetry: The Drunk Poet's Mistress

The Drunk Poet’s Mistress

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“Oh,my love,
why can't you see
these days you can’t juggle
the pencil and the glass
so you're neglecting your desk
while you drink away the days
like you’re trying to forget
something stuck in your head
cus its 27 in the shade
and your thoughts won’t thaw.
I’ve read
those open notebooks
and tomes stacked by our bed,
you use as a crutch,
but they can’t hold you to their breast
or pay back your kindness,
they only deal in false hope
like a bookies teller
who refuses to tell yer
when your lucks run out -
cus she likes your smile
when you sketch your daydreams
in the palm of her hand.
So please take my hand,
and tell me which pain
fills your head with dark lines
you can’t recite come the morn
as the tide of hate
and rum retreats.
You blame the sun,
then the moon for recoiling,
while huddling for warmth
in you dead mother’s shawl
which will never shield you
from the cold
you carry in your soul.”