Литературный портал Графоманам.НЕТ — настоящая находка для тех, кому нравятся современные стихи и проза. Если вы пишете стихи или рассказы, эта площадка — для вас. Если вы читатель-гурман, можете дальше не терзать поисковики запросами «хорошие стихи» или «современная проза». Потому что здесь опубликовано все разнообразие произведений — замечательные стихи и классная проза всех жанров. У нас проводятся литературные конкурсы на самые разные темы.

К авторам портала

Публикации на сайте о событиях на Украине и их обсуждения приобретают всё менее литературный характер.

Мы разделяем беспокойство наших авторов. В редколлегии тоже есть противоположные мнения относительно происходящего.

Но это не повод нам всем здесь рассориться и расплеваться.

С сегодняшнего дня (11-03-2022) на сайте вводится "военная цензура": будут удаляться все новые публикации (и анонсы старых) о происходящем конфликте и комментарии о нём.

И ещё. Если ПК не видит наш сайт - смените в настройках сети DNS на 8.8.8.8

 

Стихотворение дня

"партитура"
© Нора Никанорова

"Крысолов"
© Роман Н. Точилин

 
Реклама
Содержание
Поэзия
Проза
Песни
Другое
Сейчас на сайте
Всего: 485
Авторов: 0
Гостей: 485
Поиск по порталу
Проверка слова

http://gramota.ru/

Автор: roll
Just now things are getting clear to me. It has been one week and one day since i decided i was capable of drinking the ocean. I did change my mind about that yesterday morning, though. Mostly because there were no more money left to buy anything, and no health to drink that. It was a great feeling, something that could be compared to when they cut you off the oxygen, just a second before you decide to do so yourself. I looked around, and, to be quite honest, I did not enjoy what I saw. There is a hole in the wall, and a pain in my fist. The back of my jacket is covered in dried up dirt and there is a cigarette butt that stuck to it. Ash is all over the floor, it is in the sink, inside of the microwave. It is in my shoe, as well. The crowd of empty bottles is starring at me from the open fridge. The side of my body is covered with bruises. And it hurts as hell. Kitchen table is artistically illustrated with cigarette burns. Some unknown object is laying on the bathrooms floor, looking dangerous and angry. My car is gone just as all of my keys are. The front door is wide open and would not close back. And after all, there is a note on the top of the pile of garbage, that says "I love you so much, but I hate you even more, so good bye."

Today is my second day without a drink. I am feeling great. I threw all the empty bottles in my closet. Cleaned. Showered. Made some food, and ate it. I am feeling refreshed and ready for the new life.

Who am I kidding? I look around again, with my sober and clear eyes. Everything outside seems to be normal, regular now. But that makes me feel even worse on the inside. My heart is breaking. My perception is sharp as a needle. All the friends that I have made at the bars, all opinions that I have borrowed, and all the eyes that I have seen just look disposable now. I am drowning in the void of unpaid bills and, strained by my sobriety, smells of the city. I can feel with my guts how molecules of urban piss, shit, vomit, blood, and spilled somewhere behind the church semen are crawling in to my nose. Even the weather ain't any better. It is so beautiful and warm outside. It is a January spring in Michigan. And it seems like it totally should give me a boner. But it just kicks me in the balls instead, with all the good memories from my past that I have successfully struggled through.

I look in the mirror and I see there a face of this person that I know so bad. And I ask the face "Who are you and why do you always get in the way of my happiness?" The face remains silent. And then I ask it again "Do you know what I can do to make you go away, forever?" The face starts to grin. So I put my dirty stinky jacket on and walk outside to the emptiness of wounded streets. I go to the drugstore and get my paycheck from recycled bottles. I head to the liquor store, and exchange my pride rolled into $5 bill for the pint of whiskey. And it makes me brave enough to drink the ocean.

© roll, 01.02.2012 в 03:45
Свидетельство о публикации № 01022012034537-00252244
Читателей произведения за все время — 30, полученных рецензий — 0.

Оценки

Голосов еще нет

Рецензии


Это произведение рекомендуют