Alone I fall, demons crawl, from behind every wall. I try to fight back, but under constant attack, I feel like an empty train running out of track. Alone I break, my mistake, pushed me to the bottom of this icy lake. I’m kicking, pulling myself back to the sun, trying to remember I’m not the one, who belongs on the run. I caused the splash that brought this wicked tide, now nothing to do but release, finish the ride…. I will not fall. I will not break. For now I know, the next tide is mine to make.
Monthly Archives: April 2013
Feeding the bleeding. Embracing the beating. Needing the feeling. Killing the healing. I often wonder why I run from things. Question the reason, that for every passing season, I fight contentment. I push things… people, away. I don’t much care to be alone, cold as stone, trying to find a piece, to shove into this gaping hole, tucked in nicely between my heart and soul. The more I persist, the more the piece resists, as if it exists, just to drive me to madness. I just want to feel whole instead of wholly incomplete, disconnect from everyone I meet, walking on broken feet, so close… to defeat. It’s exasperating sometimes, this voice in my mind, always trying to find, what was lost and left behind. I have felt peace. I have known paradise. Foolishly, blindly, I struggled to control the flow, instead of letting it roll, I just clutched, when I should have let go. Cryptic letters scrawled in a fevered pen, clawing at the walls of this lion’s den, should’ve enjoyed now, instead of worrying about then. I pushed, I fled, the dead, beg forgiveness… with heaven in the rear view, my face slowly turns a darker shade of blue.
The other night I dreamt that I had received a letter from a dead man. It spoke of ancient fables, and disappearing myths. It offered a warning as well, hidden there amongst his curious script. It told of a coming tide of shadow, so expansive that it would drown out the Sun. Now I know the dead don’t talk, and am completely aware this was all a dream, however, a mind is a terrible thing to waste. I saw a generation diminish in despair. So many got tangled in the webs, they themselves had helped to spin. I felt the crushing weight, have been scarred by the molten heat. I have bathed in darkness, have danced with the devil, but I have begun to notice the devil has not changed, while I have. Compromise, one more cut, one more scar for the bloodletting. The dead man’s letter suggests stasis, so go ahead and try, but you can never change this.
We are the ones you medicated, and then threw away. We were told to never go, but absolutely, we couldn’t stay. You left us nothing, but a darker day. Dropped here unwanted, amongst this freakish fray. A haze, covers our once bright eyes. Our tongues feel slick and sick, from all the goddamned lies. I won’t die, not now, no matter how hard they fuckin try, I won’t die. I will breathe air, until I no longer enjoy its taste. I will live every moment, not a second will go to waste. Somehow, some way, I will find the circles end. When I do I will embrace a dear old friend, and together, we shall descend, once again, only to meet at the end. I will one day find him, the one you stole from me. A man made up of everything, you fucking took away from me. Act innocent, play the goddamned leper, but know this, you shall never find your shepherd.
Roots. Ties that bind. What does one do when these things are perplexing at best and intoxicating at worst? Puzzles were once whole before they were cut, I on the other hand, was never there before they were cut. All I’ve seen are the pieces, never the image. I think, oftentimes, I yearn to see the image so deeply, that I try to force the pieces to fit, instead of just calmly looking from piece to piece, and letting them fall where they may. I have done some harm, done some good, but on either side it wasn’t enough. I never went to the extreme on either end. Bad. Good. I always just fell somewhere in the middle. However, when in life, I have forced pieces… tried to play chess amongst the gods… I have always caused more harm than help. Dreams are a funny thing, I think they seek to help us come to a deeper understanding of ourselves. I’m forced to live regret nightly, but brief glimpses locked within images of blood, rage, and death, glimpses of a former time, glimpses of peace. I know locked within me lies the capability to dominate this world. To make it bow before me and offer me tithes. I feel closer to it daily. Yet roots… it’s hard to break ground when you dwell only among the surface. However among the surface, the man who can fly is king. With my mind, a flick and a spit, and I’m miles from here. Where I go and who I become there… are endlessly changing. I’m adaptable, if I’ve mastered anything it’s that I belong, well, wherever I am. I just hope someday I can feel something, without the automatic disconnect shortly after.
A drunken stumble, quickly turned into a sober stride. It quickly became apparent, it just wasn’t ever good enough. I learned fairly early on in my childhood, the lessons of being late. Irresponsibility never pays. I never really wanted to be responsible, I mean half of them are playing me for the devil, the other half plays me as a victim, so tell me, again, I beg, who the hell am I? The devil? The victim? Possibly a grotesque combining of the two? Please? Enlighten me? Silence is golden, as are the gods.
I feel a vibration sometimes, right near my heart, it pulses, it breathes, it’s just there… out of reach. Some told me I was insane, when I was growing up. Said I needed medication… lots of it. I took it, I always just felt more disconnected from the thrum, flowing through me, I felt as though the music had stopped.
Opiates, in the form of painkillers, however, well let’s just say they created their own music. It was a fascinating beat, very relaxing. Insanely peaceful. Completely, and utterly, cut off from the flow. The hopeless need no hope when despair is their lover. I still, during this time of my addiction, took my prescribed 4 pill antipsychotic “therapy” treatment daily. Till I quit.
I won’t ever find the correct combination of words to describe the detox from opiates, and nor will any other man. For the dead have no words to speak, and the only way a man stays clean, is if that man kills off their old self. This is a hard thing. No one ever escapes unscathed, or unscarred. So please? Tell me one more time… who I fucking am?