numb—(adj.): deprived of the power of sensation
i did not know what it meant to be truly numb until i begged an unseen god to give me back my muse. some way to rid my tired brain of this toxicity, to pop the ******* cork and let my emotions well over and release like champagne. in a forgotten time, words flowed out of me, slowly easing my mind of the noxious feelings eroding at it as pen was put to paper.
no longer can my emotions boil over into words; rather, they are pushed deeper and deeper into my being, slowly rotting me from the inside out. a lost sense of rhythm. a lost sense of touch in a dark room, no guides, no way to let out what i am feeling inside.
a false smile can hold a thousand words; a single teardrop, a million. i wish i had that ******* luxury. a look in the mirror at my tired and battered self, a deep cut of pain, but no blood flow. i absorb the pain into myself, still praying my muse will one day find me. destroy the dam built in my brain housing my lost sense of empathy, my deep pain. and as i write this short piece of prose on my inability to feel, hoping for a release of some sort,
i wait.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 12:36 AM UTC
paycheck to paycheck, bottle to bottle,
i've found a home on the floor of a
stranger's home at four in the morning,
half-drunk, numbed to the pain of the
outside world.
i woke up this morning with an ache
in my jaw, a pit in my stomach,
a craving for loss of brain cells,
as if alcohol could truly **** the pain,
or me.
i've tried to **** the monsters in me
with drugs and drinks,
on more than one occasion,
and if sober is our default,
why is it so **** difficult?
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
have you forgotten what you promised me?
another moment of solitude, another second of silence
in this tired, old brain of mine,
barely eighteen, yet aged beyond my years,
i have grown up too quickly.
finding happiness in others soon proves difficult when
a bottle is a much closer friend than any other,
wading through my emotions like a smoky room,
pretending to be alright, just for tonight,
when i'm drunk and calling you at 3:30 am,
asking you why you left me alone,
when you promised that you'd
never leave when i needed you
the most.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
I smoked cigarettes to forget my pain,
Or ease it until I wasn't alone
At least in terms of physical space,
Throwing myself into people to forget
the person I didn't want to be
But felt myself becoming.
I wish I could go back to the summer nights,
Alcohol-tainted breath, the high goes away,
And you're left with nothing but blurry memories.
There is never a high, a rush good enough to
Erase reality,
Always waiting for the comedown,
Remembering the pain numbed by
Drug-induced self confidence and
False happiness
Searching for a place far enough from
This filthy world
Far enough away to numb me for good,
Wishing I had an escape route just a little
More permanent.
Words don't spill out of me anymore,
Tears don't either.
I can't force myself to put my feelings into
stanzas, well rhymed, correct syllable counts,
My words fall like *****
Never appetizing enough to be beautiful
But I still find myself reaching for a bottle
When times get hard
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 1:43 AM UTC
loss of control can be beautiful
when you're problems are gone
in a cloud of smoke-
or when the burn in your throat
matches the fire in your eyes
as you watch it all fall apart
in beautiful intoxication:
"I'm just having fun,"
the words fall cooly from a
well trained mouth,
grown accustomed to
hiding, justifying,
afraid to admit that maybe,
just maybe,
you are in too deep.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
you are familiar.
i know the feel of your hands, the taste of your tongue,
the parts of you that deserve the most attention.
i know you.
we used to smoke cigarettes in my car,
windows down,
music loud,
laughing out the window,
we were alive.
getting high in the sunlight,
warmth surrounding us,
summer days turn to summer nights,
warm,
electric,
real.
but our blood no longer runs crimson.
rather, we are cold and blue,
false bodies, false promises,
fraudulent smoke from a fraudulent pipe.
our teeth are still white,
but our smiles are unfamiliar.
"how are you?"
i ask.
lighting a cigarette, you look at me and reply,
"fine."
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
breathe in deep,
{deep breaths will help you cope}
chew gum,
a diet coke and a cigarette in the afternoon,
the carbonation burns your throat
{thank god}
another cigarette after work,
another cup of coffee on the road
{black, with two sugars}
park the car,
go inside,
do laundry,
do the dishes,
do something
{distraction is key}
look in the mirror,
tousle your hair,
you look
{normal?}
there are no external warning signs,
{not that you've exhibited, at least}
this deception you're living every day,
has become the norm for you
{who am i?}
{but he doesn't look like an alcoholic}
silent pain,
no one can hear your cries for help.
{are you, perhaps, too prideful to look like an alcoholic?}
you still wake up for work,
eat breakfast,
go to church,
but your faith is no longer in God,
the blood of your God represented in a chalice of wine,
passed through the hands of the faithful followers,
{moderation is key, isn't that what they told you?}
pass the cup back to the holy man before he sees
the look in your eyes,
begging for more,
{one more drink}
{please}
it only matters if you show the warning signs,
as if this addiction
{dare i say, disease?}
could fit into a pamphlet,
neatly folded,
creased edges,
glossy photographs,
all smiles,
1-800 number in the big font
{this is your life, and it fits on a single sheet of paper}
{no one can help you but yourself, and you're not doing so well}
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC
I sat up all night
and thought about you,
darling,
and your lips
and hands
and the curve of your hips
and the way you pronounce things
and all the simple
tiny
idiosyncrasies
that embody you
and how I'll never again be able
to see those lips
and hands
and hips
without thinking of
the bitter contrast between
summer's warmth
and
winter's harsh bite.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
what is a human
but the chemicals
that make him up
or the thoughts
in his brain or the tiny
little wrinkles
on his palms or even
the warm, red blood
cells that persistently
pump through his
body even though
he wants them
to run
cold.
what is a human
but the anxiety
and worries that
define his every
waking moment
and encapsulate him
in a fear-driven
rage and throw him
into a pit of sadness
and anger until
his humanity is
gone.
what is a human
but the tears
streaming down
his face when he
lays his head on
his pillow at night
and wishes that
he wouldn't have
to lift it up in the
morning and that
instead of a bed, he
would wake up in a
coffin.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC