You said that you would never do it,
you said you could resist.
Now I see you lift that can
and press it to your lips.
You have ranted on and on about its dangers,
but there you stand
talking to everyone else,
holding it in your hand.
Occasionally taking a sip or two,
then glancing around to see who saw.
Hoping someone caught you being bad,
hoping someone saw you break the law.
You pour the rest into six cups
and begin to play the game.
By the end, everything reeks of beer,
and you are the one to blame.
Your shirt is soaked
and your hands are sticky.
No longer are you not branded
by the beer drinker hickey.
The stale scent is on your breath,
accompanied by its horrible taste.
You fall over as you faint;
your promise was such a waste.
This never happened. I let my imagination run away with me for this one. For this poem, it’s my conscience talking about me. I’m the one who is drinking, even though that has never occurred and I have always promised myself that I wouldn’t let that substance enter my body. But, like most promises, eventually this one will break, so I wrote this poem to myself as a reminder. I don’t exactly approve of underage drinking, or even drinking in general for that matter. People tell me that I can’t judge it until I’ve tried it, but to be perfectly honest, I have no desire to even take a sip. This poison that people gulp down makes them act so stupid, and I am beyond that. They can have fun killing their livers; I’ll be with my real friends that don’t need alcohol to have fun.