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Best Poems Written by Feo The Ugly Drunken Poet

Below are the all-time best Feo The Ugly Drunken Poet poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Poetry Stew

Poetry stew.


My poetry stew has ingredients of goo

The ass end of a warm drink

The chaser for an anti depressant capsule

A five o' clock shadow 

A hangover and panic attacks

The tears of a psychiatrist 

Blood from the hands of an ugly poet 

A terrified suicide 

A kiss never sober 

New York City blues and a trip to a toilet after every drink

A friendly goodbye 

A stool at the bar with your faith written all over it

Cum soaked napkins that turn yellow like your dying skin 

Pathetic messages from people who don't know what you've been through 

My fellow punks and beats, modern day philosophers 

A strait jacket that fits

A functioning psychotic 

A poet with messy hair who hates his reflection

Get me out of here 

The lovely taste of a depressed man

Everyone gets a shot 

Everyone gets a taste 

Everyone can have a drink

Enjoy or be sane.

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Last Stop

Last stop.



I’ve decided to contact you after all these years of searching, we’ve never met, but I knew your daughter

I don’t think she ever mentioned me before, it was a long time ago

I have something I want to give you, I wrote about her and I want you to have it, it’s all I have of her

take it and read it to her, tell her it was from me

tell her that it’s all I have, no photos, no pieces of clothing

just this letter.

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The Sunset Over Manhattan

The sunset over Manhattan.
                      By Feo.

A thousand walks back and forth 
a day, a thousand glance at the city bay.

A thousand memories locked at your post, a thousand daydreams I have dreamt in my winter coat. 

My sanctuary, a bench that faces north towards the skyline, the vibrations of the commuters and passerby's just a minor distraction from my dreams of a reunion that I have lived and relived over and over that reality seems but just a distant memory.

Oh how I have dreamt of seeing you again,
Over and over till it feels true, 
For I have never felt love till we made it,
The influence of this generation beat of ours, perhaps it wouldn't be poetic if we were to kiss again? Warm tears I have felt rolling slowly down my cheeks, like many poetic beats do, when they think of losing the influence that runs through there tragic memory.

The warmth,
 a Manhattan sunset,

My bench that faces north to the city skyline,

That's where I'll be waiting,

To let you wipe my joyous tears away.

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Thanks

To all the outsiders out there, thank you.

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Mental Health

Depression, you will be the death of me.

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Faith

If heaven is on earth then I am forever damned.

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Schizophrenic One Night Stand

Schizophrenic one night stand
By Feo.


Benzos - that’s her thing

Meth - used to it

On her own since she was a little girl

She hears things, she always does

Every twitch is a different drug

And every voice is a different drink

Why are all the crazy ones taken?

It’s always the pretty ones that are crazier than me. But I get it

People with disorders make great lovers

The voices in there head scream louder in bed

We can be paranoid together if you’d let me.

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Ink Stains

Ink Stains
                                                 



I have two tabs open, forgot to eat, the studio has no lighting and it smells like cigarettes, but I don’t smoke

There's napkins piled by my library, but they’re not stained with semen, the desert is framed on my wall and my thoughts are written below

It's been cold way too long, I read the tales of madmen and junkies to feel comfortable, and at the same time having mild panic attacks

Sleep is only six hours long and I always wake up fully dressed, as seen with my own eyes from above

The Manhattan Bridge is abandoned, the Bowery looks lonesome, the paddy wagons are frozen, The Chrysler's forgotten, his brother is where people climb up to the roof, just to jump off

1st Ave is nothing but insane asylums and wealth, everywhere I go I'm surrounded by trust funds, who make it hard for me to go anywhere,

The East Village used to be Punks, now its cunts

I leave my stain everywhere I go, I am now the older generation

Every morning I'm by the East River, my heart is lost in Europe, and my writing is stuck in New York

My muse is an angel, and I am possessed

I am a drinker, and a romantic, I'm a spic, but also human, I cry because I'm sensitive

My hair is messy and my eyes are fire bombed, my breath is rotten and the paste is clay

My pockets have bled in Washington Square Park, my pants are now stained, and my screams remain silent.

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A Loss For Words

I can no longer write poems, for I can only have one love.....

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The Finer Things In Life

We wake up every day with the realization that we're waiting to die

Life is short, depression is long

I guess that's what makes us writers and poets, to escape the fear others have of the our time we have 

We as writers and poets and people of prose see the beauty in tragedy, we have seen love with our own eyes

We have felt it

there is love after death

That's what keeps us going

Because when we die, our writing will live on forever

Our writing can be a whole different world for someone else

It can inspire, and change lives

Writers, poets, people of prose, We will live on forever in the finer things club.