Writers are Alcoholics
JCD Kerwin
Writers are alcoholics.
We drink India ink and
eat coffee grounds for breakfast.
We sit in bars,
lamenting regrets
and chasing memories.
Our eyes are bloodshot
from looking for answers
on typewriters.
We are invincible,
shielding ourselves with words
and wielding pens like swords.
Writers are alcoholics.
We get drunk of existence
and regurgitate Heaven.
Been a while since I posted any personal writing…
Last Call
JCD Kerwin
I carry suicide in my pocket.
I haven’t got a death wish;
it’s just
the fear of nothingness
is keeping me alive.
I’d like to say I’m back, but let’s be honest…
Figments in Ibiza
JCD Kerwin
I could have been
in laser lights, magnified
by my own
euphoria.
I could have
measured my worth
by punches,
not by sad songs
echoing late at night.
(And I bet
my PF Flyers would
have worn out long before
the brown
from my eyes.)
I could have been a hero;
Instead, I play pretend:
I make paper beds
and in my head,
these pencil sticks
are cigarettes,
and with these pens,
I slay regrets
like I’m a knight
in forever armor.
But I’m nothing but a dreamer,
and I feel a little weaker
while I keep reaching
in garbage cans
for stars.
I could have been
invincible
if I wanted:
just let go a roar and
watch my breath
move mountains.
I could have been…
but I ended up like this.
(September 2016)
Under the Armour
JCD Kerwin
It’s funny that
to forge ahead
you must discard
the bloodied, broken armour
you’ve been wearing ‘round for years.
(Some sanguine stains are yours;
some family’s;
and some pure stranger’s.)
In the end,
you walk alone
with brittle bones
and scars upon your feet.
But you know,
the briar patch
you crawled through
all your life
is miles behind.
Nothing but grassy knolls
for your wounded toes
ahead.
And it echoes in your head:
“With every step and
every breath: hold on.”
Hold on, hold on, hold on.
With every drip
of sweat and tear;
blood that poured from all those years:
hold on,
walk on,
through valleys beyond
the Dark cast out
from your shattered, burned insides.
(May 2015)
It came to me in a rush.
It’s probably not even good.
[Untitled]
JCD Kerwin
I’ll stab this pen
a thousand times,
to make my stories
run red with blood.
My heart will look
like a tattered valentine,
but the moon will shine
through its holes
like a billion stars,
ready to dance,
in time,
with your heartbeats.
March, 2015
J.C.D. KERWIN 