Drinking Poems - Poems about Drinking

About to procrastinate am putting it off setting it aside it's never too late it can wait as now is the hour no time like the present nothing important I can't circumvent didn't wind the clock gave my watch away don't need to know what week it is nor hour of the day nowhere I have to be no one's expecting me from this moment on no long hard climb just eating drinking wining dining I'm...

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I was not always this clever, this funny, this incredibly smart But it is two a.m. somewhere, and I am hilarious; it is my art. Weirdly, I was not in any way exciting before I got to this bar. But now I am unbelievably witty, ask my buddy, his name is Gar. Aren’t I witty, Gar? Aren’t I pretty?...

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When I think about you drinking alcohol, I start to feel disgust. Your absent-mindedness makes all my feelings feel so just. When you took alcohol from random men and excused it— it caused me distrust. Seeing you wasted that time really messed up all of my brain. It makes me relive those moments— and all I feel is pain. When you got a ride from a...

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neon flickers pink, cherry blossoms broken glass—— I drank the false moon....

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Blasphemy, truly— To treat a poem like lab equipment. Smearing souls on damp napkins, scribbling overwrought sorrows. We are sacred, young lady. Vessles for disciplined sociopaths and occasionally, prophets. Not therapy couches for freshly wrecked teens. Yet here you are— dismantling verses with the rollerball pen from middle school and deliberately gothic tragedies. “I’m figuring it out as I go.” The audacity. But fine, if you’d rather, learn...

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—Blackout. \ rewind \\ 9pm, my messy curls sizzled as chemicals flow down the drain— raven, ...

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She’s at it again. Wasting my ink staging yet another death. I draft her crimson melodramas with third-hand metaphors as she sips on ‘hope’ like tonic laced with rust and wears ‘moor’ like thrift-store perfume. I thread her June into forced sonnets (poor things), before her gin drowned the meter in proofed regret. Even a pen gets impatient. Sometimes she pauses, as though it might save her— I...

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A night in fragments— Breath reeked mildewed regrets, and static collided behind my eyes. I tasted shattered neon, sipping cheap club gin. Even alcohol can’t silence the poet— I mock her perfumed clichés, but still draft her eulogy in thrifted elegance. “I hate writing blind,” I muttered as gin bled through crooked verses— March 14th, a drunk poet sighed— Her pen staged the week’s second...

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Drinking is an emotional experience, an elixir that pulls you from the monotony of everyday life, It takes you out of ordinary patterns, from all that is identical and dull, like a story told too many times, It tears you from your body and mind, throws you against the invisible walls of your own existence, I feel that...

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The camel, when drinking of tea, Takes sugar proportionately. For each of its humps It drops twenty lumps; But more, if it’s sailing by sea. ...

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I dreamed I was in Café Terrace with Toulouse-Lautrec. We were downing glass after glass of orange triple sec. And quite drunk, he muttered something that shocked me so ~ he slurred he'd eaten the ear of Vincent van Gogh! And I jolted awake ~ sunflower bedsheet wrung around my neck. ...

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there was a young man from Ennis who desired to learn to play tennis the ball whacked him in the head so he decided to go to a pub instead and have fun drinkin’ the Guiness ...

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I'm not writing a poem now, I'm drinking wine in a dark room. As always I am tempted to drag the moon into this moment or whatever, make a fuss about something just like those who, not even seeing the moon or its light, just sit in the dark spinning webs for dead spiders. Why drag anything into a dark wine glass, as if you just caught...

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Beneath the moon's pale gleam, I sit alone, The sea's cool breath weaving through my robes. Upon my lips, the ocean's secrets flow— Each oyster a pearl of the world untold. Their brine whispers of the tides' long song, Of ships lost, of lovers waiting in vain. A sip of wine softens the sea's harsh kiss, Its fire dancing where salt once...

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Traffic Safety Poetry Contest Miranda Hawley It's a happy-sad ending hour at many bars Where the parking lots are fool of cars Where many of these spiteful patrons arrive And then drink over the limit and some nose-dive Mothers against drunk driving are calling Fix your unruly ways because it’s appalling...

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