I Was Drunk Poem by Aditya Marskole

A toast for the drunkards
At the spirit dwelling
Who speak in volume
Calculating likes of own.
It's the dull luster I thought
What brought them here,
Maybe the clarity of hooch
Or the truth of wine.
Oh many were there that night,
Some knuckles clutched,
Some arms around shoulders
Also some tears weakening
Their spirit strong.
Ridiculous I felt placed
Amongst the crowd I judged
I raised my glass for this
Morbid congress,
Spilling my precious
All over my crotch
I reached the first act
As I looked around in shame
Their glasses still low
And their faces delusional
Finding their hands for forgetting.
I found myself alone
With the piece of paper
Back In my pocket
And my pen lost between
The drinks
I paid my dues and
Tipped handsomely
Before I walked out
The shrine for lost souls
I yelled out loud for
My confidants in air
"Let there be a feast we all
Remember for long"
Comrades they came
With curvy bottles of joy
Of ethos noble and strong.
And then began the feast
Of reminiscence
The golden days of youth
When a feast wasn't needed
To bring the folks along
I remained silent, thinking
Should I stay or should I go
Schemes I made in my mind
To not sound distant
Or indifferent
Lie after lie I felt yet again
Alone.
A firm grip of glass
Gave me strength
And I walked out again
But now dues weren't paid
Nor was it anymore handsome
With a shame I turned the knob
They won't understand I thought
For the times have changed
And intoxicants needed
For the sense to be sane
As I walked away
Afraid of the mythical vigilance
No head looked out for me
Then I turned around myself
And searched for a
Familiar face
I had reached the second act.
With the glass still gripped
As if gripping my throat
I reached my bed in silence
Now that its now
And I judged myself
My smelly shirt hanging
And the old smell of sweat
It seemed very long since
I walked around my bed
I reached for the table
And admired the dust
Settled uniformly like new owners
I looked at old pages scattered
Wishing to be written upon
Bookmarks peeking gloomily
Longing for a separate pair of pages
To linger on.
I searched my pockets
I panicked and cried
Fumbling and desperate I searched
At last I found the paper
No, it wasn't a letter or message
But a clear white piece of paper
I reached out for pen and
Bowed down a little
I took one last glance at the clarity
Then all I heard was
The slow scratching I made
Of words that were familiar
At last I reached the third act
The finale, the start, the middle
For the glass was gone, vanished
With no effort to be found.