Join the Neopoet online poetry workshop and community to improve as a writer, meet fellow poets, and showcase your work. Sign up, submit your poetry, and get started.

Drugs and alcohol

I go to the store to get some Mountain Dew
Mom asks me if I’m high and i tell her I am through
But my Mountain Dew is ‘special’
And my drugs are confidential
And i don't want them to know the truth…
About my torn tattoos
That left a bruise
About my deep ass scares
I almost crashed my car,
I wasn’t that sober.
They ask me “why do you drink your only 13,
You shouldn’t drink you have a family,
But I’m a broken serial code
Only 4 numbers long, they’re unknown
And i'll bring to school my lean
And hope i go unseen.
And i'll hope the cops won't track me down
Take my drugs and leave this town
And my mountain dew is empty
And my heart it needs assembly
Cause these drugs and alcohol
And the style here is trendy
Oh just look it's so tempting
Yes, The drugs and alcohol.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words: 
For anyone who struggles with any type of addiction, I know how you feel. I may not know your story but you are not alone.
Editing stage: 

Comments

Fuck man, I have used and abused every drug known to man except crack since I was 17, a bit older than you.
And guess what? I'm the only one of my peers still alive. Yep, all dead. ODs, car crashes, drug-induced psychosis suicide, liver failure, heart attacks from speed and coke, brain aneurisms. Actually, there is one, but she is in permanent psychiatric lockup. So I guess I can't blame peer pressure any more.

I still drink, do opiates and benzos, a bit of ice now and then. I'm 61 and making 65 would surprise me and everyone else. I know why I do it, but this poem doesn't tell me why you do. It shits me to tears. You are messing with your brain in its formative years. Fucking idiot deadshit. Tell us why and it better be good.

You need your brain to be the poet I think you can be, so why?
The usuals? Pain, alienation, social pressure? You have to re-write this poem to make the reasons very fucking convincing and then you are going to tell us how much you value the greatest thing you have, your brain, and tell us how you are going to stop.

Yes, I can can preach and shout and demand because I survived with some brain cells intact, with constant, unremitting physical and psychic pain, with the knowledge so devastating I could have been so much better. So much better. Imagine feeling that every day left of your life?

So write this poem again. Write it real.

cheers,
Jess
Neopoet Directors

but we can talk about that when I see the new poem.

cheers,
Jess
Neopoet Directors

(c) Neopoet.com. No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.