It usually takes two beers for me to write decently
Alcohol kills brain cells
But I swear that mine work better under the influence
After 4 beers my writing really starts to take off
I stop thinking too much
I stop worrying if I sound like someone else
It just comes out
And after 5 beers
Thoughts and ideas are flying from the mind
and directly into the fingers that type frantically
Its as if someone else is thinking the thoughts
Someone else writing the nonsensical words
And i'm just typing the translation,
But it is me;
Just without me to get in my way.
I let myself take over.
Is this why so many writers were alcoholics?
Is it the magic trick to genius?
Or is it slowly killing me?
After 6 beers i stop worrying about my death completely.
Lots of things are killing me.
Time being one of them
And no one escapes time.
She’s a cruel bitch.
After 7 beers everything becomes a cruel bitch.
Heartbreak has killed me faster than anything else.
The longing to feel less,
Or to feel nothing at all.
That cruel bitch.
Why’d she have to break my heart?
It's probably my most important organ
And it splits into two as easy as tearing a shitty poem in half.
After 8 beers i start to feel everything.
It boils up.
Tears roll down my face.
Its my pain to show.
Its my sorrow.
Its my life.
If they don't like it,
If they want to judge,
If they want to give funny looks,
They are all cruel bitches anyways
After 9 beers the earth starts to spin.
Then i realize that it always spins
And this is nothing new.
Its always been spinning.
Some day it might stop,
But not today.
Today I am in sync with the rotation of this world.
In perfect sync.
Like two elite ballroom dancers.
Me and my mother gaia.
Our earth has a pulsating magnetic field that is almost like a heartbeat.
She’s almost real.
My heart syncs up with this rhythm.
I become the earth.
I become nature.
I realize that I’ve always been nature
And everyone else is too.
Looks like I am a cruel bitch as well,
Just like them.
some how the beautiful symmetry of nature
And the beautiful mysteries as well.
After 10 beers,
My 150 lb body starts to reject it.
Microdosing this poison that helps me write.
That helps me feel.
That hurts me.
The poison that i enjoy,
It kills the brain.
I think too much anyways.
After 11 beers the eyelids start to feel heavy.
The weight of living starts to feel heavy.
The weight of the world.
I feel like dropping the weight off of my shoulders.
I go to sleep,
And experience nothingness.
Nothingness cant be described
Is this what death is?
The nothingness that can’t be described?
Maybe it is puppies, rainbows and virgins though.
That's what they say right?
That’s what so many believe.
That’d be neat.
I wonder if they have beer in heaven?
Or drunken writers?