Drunk Days Are Dying

Poem By Adam Holmes

I stumble down the stairs and into my room
My smile turns sour
As the whiskey begins its revolt
These drunk days are dying
My life won’t stop growing
The troubles get bigger
And the past just gets smaller

I turn off my light
Turn on my memory..
..Born out of a bottle
Aged in my gut
And spit out on the floor
Man I’ve had some good times
Bad times
Sad times
Glad times
I suddenly remember..
All those drunk times

Campfire conversations intermitted
So we could hit hay bales with my truck
But those days are gone
Nobody cares if the field grows tall
And insurance is too expensive

Sliding down homemade zip lines
And slamming into the side of a moving van
Punching fences to prove my might
My body tells me I’m not as tough as I used to be
Toughness starts on the outside and soaks itself in

One night stands with ugly broads
Sinful thoughts, empty souls
Beer in a glass is unbiased and tranquil
But when you send it hiding
It sometimes gets angry
And seeks to destroy you

Four drinking tickets
In the same amount of weeks
The price I paid for being underage
I underestimated my own stupidity
Then I underestimated my underestimation
Cop cars are plenty, money is not

The nights I played camp counselor for
Beer soaked friends, transformed
Into elementary school children
And those nights I needed counseled
We no longer transform into careless ignorance
We become rational, we become discouraged

My drunk days are dying
And I’m preparing a eulogy
Rest in peace I will say
And offer a somber toast
Then i will give birth to something big
Something great
A life of bliss and revelation

I’ll get drunk again

Comments about Drunk Days Are Dying

There is no comment submitted by members.

Rating Card

5 out of 5
0 total ratings

Other poems of HOLMES

Destination Dreamland

Skipping stones
Rolling heads
Falling stars
Unmade beds

A Master Needs A Masterpiece

What a fascinating fellow
He gave us mountains,
And sunsets,

A Day’s Work: The Search For Purpose And Dreams Of Finding It

7: 00 A.M.

What is it with it with old women hanging their undergarments from clothes lines in unfenced back yards so early in the morning? My stomach is already unsettled by the greasy breakfast and vengeful hangover. Shame must have an expiration date.


People question me about my content
“You never write about the beautiful things”
Everything is grim
Everything is ugly

The Wheel Of Misfortune

Wisdom plays the voice of reason
Reason slaps the hand of hope
Hope rides the wave of faith
Faith moves the wall of fear

Telescopic Visions

Elitist wants the world bent at his ever fattening waist. I’m better then you yet you think your richer then I. A telescope reaches an eye to the stars, but eyes grow weary of sights so far away. Hearts, crashed into a hoopla of fast talking salesmen
The feet wait to walk
Preacher sells the good of god, and the atheist steals it right back.
They are both taxed by eyes of innocence. Forgetful of this, the talking never quits. Living a life of nonsense makes the most. Thinkers stumble on their minds mended steps.