John stood up and looked at everyone while they issued out the usual cloud of noise. Contemplating his words and how rude they would be in the presence of his brother and his brother's wife's wedding, he wrapped his right hand around his empty glass (that was his seventh glass and he didn't do a very good job at drinking modestly) and raised it up. He stumbled back a few steps as if the words his conscience had uttered to him were punches. They sure felt like so.
This isn't the time OR the place, John. STOP THIS NOW.
John sometimes argued with his conscience and decided to do so again.
Look, you. I don't need anyone telling me anything about what's right and what's wrong. At this point, I just don't think I care anymore.
You're drunk, John. Just sit back down.
I'm not drunk. I see everything so clearly now, so how can I be drunk? Maybe YOU'RE drunk. Did'ja ever think about it that way?
By now, everyone was staring and only then did John realize that he was saying everything in his head out loud. Even his conscience's lines.
"Alright," he said, looking around. "Now that I have your attention, I'd like to make a toast. Everyone's facial expressions illustrated confusion.
I'm toasting to me. Because I am, and will forever be. My worst nightmare.
With a slap to the forehead, John said out loud what his conscience said inside of him. Oh my God, John.
A ridiculous attempt to hug himself to make up for his conscience's lack of arms happened as he began to cry like a drunk baby.
YOU ARE READING
Premature
PoetryThis is just me giving my perception of how I see things through poetry. This may or may not have many parts. I titled this Premature because of the way I think about things most other teens probably don't. I really hope anyone that reads this will...
