old poem here, but i still remember this moment, still remember the tullamore dews being passed over my notebook and thinking to myself ‘i hope no one spills their shots.’ of course, i was the one to spill his shot on my notebook then furiously dabbed at the puddle atop the page. this poem serves as a lesson that sometimes the ‘you’ i write about is actually self-reflective.

‘it never dries’

i can write over stains 

of tullamore dew in my notebook

but i cannot write

over fuck-ups you’ve committed

across my life. 

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© Joseph A. Pinto

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Poetry served raw and unedited from the moment crafted.

The large majority of my poetry handcrafted from inside bars.

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'dead bird,' 'From My Front Steps,' 'Scotch and Scars' and 'A Distilled Spirit' poetry collections available in paperback and ebook on Amazon.

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