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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1028544-Alcohols-Finest-Hour
Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Drama · #1028544
Can he win the battle against the bottle, himself, and the police?
This poem comes mostly as an observation of someone's life.

All this upheaval is making me shake.
The stress increases and raises the stake.
I need to escape! I'm right on the brink!
Bloody Hell! When can I get my next drink?

I can't let myself run out again.
I stop at the store for more booze and then
I can't make it out of the parking lot.
I open it and take another shot.

My quivering hands begin to subside,
and then I'm in for a cloud-kissing ride.
There's no telling where I'll end up this time.
Will I go home ? Will I commit a crime?

It doesn't matter to me anymore
as long as my best friend's on the floor,
waiting for me when I need a drink;
a reflexive response, I don't even think.

My people say that I'm a sitting duck,
that alcohol's behind all my bad luck.
But they don't understand. This is my creed:
To get through the day, its something I need.

The angel of death lurks beyond my door.
That bottle's empty, have to get some more.
I swerve into the store and demand a case.
The clerk says nothing as she stares at my face.

She sees the cop car and the black clouds loom,
but I'm mindless of the impending doom.

I crank the truck and merge onto the road.
I see blue lights flash but the spirits flowed.
There's no way I'm getting a DUI.
I can outrun him. I just have to fly.


Ninety miles an hour over gravel land.
All of a sudden, I lose my command.
Roll after roll then it comes to a crash.
The truck cab is now full of glass and trash.

Sirens scream! There are voices of strife!
Helicopter noise, The Jaws of Life!
I fade into darkness and then see light.
The colors are pretty, beautifully bright.

Then, I'm snatched up by a figure of gloom
and taken into a shadowy room.

I look around at the fiery walls,
and see lavish amounts of alcohol.
This isn't so bad, this hand I've been dealt.
I reach for a drink and the bottles melt.

They're out of grasp, no matter how I try.
The aching inside is making me cry.

Then I think back to that one time when they
came to share a message of hope from AA.
If only I had listened to what they said,
alcohol wouldn't be the reason I'm dead.

50 Lines
© Copyright 2005 💟Crissy~Hijacked (crissy at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1028544-Alcohols-Finest-Hour