I am not poetic
My words do not flow off the page like something out of a novel
Because I am not anything but ordinary
I am shockingly uninteresting
I am unseen and mistreated
I am misunderstood and forgotten
Because nobody really wants to see if you can cope
No one really care to look into it longer than a definition
No one really cares to ask
They always ask why the sky is blue but never why I am so very blue
I am bluer than the deepest parts of the ocean
I am more bitter than the first sip of coffee
I am more afraid than a lost child in the depths of a crowded supermarket
I am as useful as dulled razor
I am just as forgettable as I wish to be
I am nothing more than a breeze.
I sit in this park that I’ve never seen before, fog threatens to suffocate me. While i’m distracted another me slinks up to my bench sinking into its place next to me. It’s face smooth and iridescent, turns to hardened wax. I can barely breathe when it speaks again, it’s voice ten octaves lower than mine will ever go. It barely whispers but it’s enough to slow the earth “god has abandoned us, we are not his children anymore.” it turns to plastic, hot lava shiny lava falls into my lap. And just like that it’s gone, and so am I.
The walls stand twenty feet high, checkered mistakes of the last decade left blood spatter. I’m some how the size of a mouse while cackling hyenas tower over me, massive monsters with skin stretched tight and hackles always on guard. They start a fire in my guts, the burning rage from years of being tortured turns to stomach turning fear. It starts again a tremor of laughing directed at me pushing me deeper into the cracked linoleum. It sets off the rocket in my boots and i’m off running faster than I ever thought possible. But they as always run faster, i’m no match to elongated limbs. Their teeth miles long, their jaws unhinge like a hungry snake ready to devour me whole.
Frankly, I was the best me I could possibly be when sedated. When I was twelve I broke my arm in four places. It required surgery where they ripped open my arm and shoved twelve screws into a bone and with that came morphine. It was then I decided I was far more tolerable when heavily sedated, I mean to the point I didn’t wanna swallow a bullet everytime I had to spent longer than ten minutes with myself. I tried everything Ketamine, Valium, Xanax, Percocet you name it, id done it and yet I still managed to be a “functional” member of society. It was baffling really you think of drug addicts as trying to rob 7/11 and giving head in the backseat of a car, not a mid 20s tax paying fat man. The stereotype of drug addicts I wished was true was the head, no dealer will let you piss off without paying that easy. I once had my front tooth knocked out and a hefty hospital bill for 30 mg, I mean I got hospital grade pain pills so I wasn’t all that mad. But the point remains, I had to make up some excuse to the nurse about how some dude jumped me, i’m thinking she didn’t buy it because this theoretical dude would have to be over 6’5 to do this much damage, under the impression I hadn’t laid down and taken it like a bitch. It was really more hassle than it was worth, I should’ve just borrowed money from someone. But hey if I learned anything in the fifteen years of being a drug addict, when a mean ass dealer comes looking for money with his mean ass dog, trying to win a fist fight means you are inevitably dead. And I’m talking dead dead, like 6ft under busty women crying over your casket dead. A bit unfortunate to waste all the emotionally unstable big tittied women on a corpse. Which got me thinking could your dick even get a hard on once your dead, do they drain all the blood out before your buried or do I have a chance to let one of those women on my dead dick? Or I could just fake my death, one of my numerous ex girlfriends would be so happy I had arose from the dead we’d be fucking in a mausoleum before the casket stuffer even got cold. Come to think of it id probably be out of debt if I was dead, scary drug dealers and their scary ass dogs don’t come looking for money if you’re six ft under. I’d probably be able to make it to Cuba before anyone realized the casket was empty and some girl was pregnant. I pulled out my phone typing “how to fake your death” into the google search bar. I clicked on the the wikihow link immediately deciding to text everyone I know that I was contemplating suicide. Not the big scary dealer with his big scary dog though, if he knew I was trying to off myself he’d probably strip my body of it’s organs. Probably, it’s just a theory but knowing him he’d probably steal my T.V while he was at it. The guys a money hungry leech, I mean I didn’t exactly expect any drug dealer to be kind and understanding but they would’ve made it on lifetime if they were.
I feel like i’m screaming loud enough to shatter the 4th dimension
but the house wont even shake
The residents sleep undisturbed because I wasn’t all that loud to begin with
I feel like i’m dying
I haven’t slept in what feels like forever
No benzo will cure the perpetual bags
I am desperate and frustrated
Because I could be screaming at the top of my lungs and the floor boards wouldn’t even creak
Nobody will ever hear me.
I sobered up about a month and a half ago and I’ve got to say, it fucking sucks. I do not feel better and im not seeing the world with fresh eyes and optimism shining out my ears. The real world fucking blows, i’m bored, horny, depressed AND I huffed glue yesterday. On that note though the first time I realized you could huff household shit, kill your brain cells and get a high in one session I thought I was the bloody messiah. It was probably one of the most life changing things i’ve ever experienced. I’m probably the only one in the world who fucking huffs paint these days, its incredibly easy to get coke in the bright shiny days of capitalism. The point of this blog post was to bitch and moan about being sober and yknow the fact I’m convinced its a scam.