"At Least I Have My Voices"
by E.J. Crowe

Why so isolated?
Why the **** am I so alone?
Why the **** does everyone turn—
or betray—
******* zealots and fakes,
wolves in sheep’s clothing,
friends with fake love,
fake life,
fake smiles—
I see the cracks bleeding through your mask.

Your words speak kindness,
but your heart drips venom.
Why are you like this?

People hate me.
For what?
Because I speak truth?
Because I’m unfiltered?
Because I’m real?

Well, *******.
My family, my friends, my fake ******* support group.
The ones who force laughs at dumb jokes
then whisper prayers for my downfall.

I see your plans—
like scripture on stained glass.
I see the blade behind your back.
You want me to fall,
to relapse,
to burn.

Empty pill bottles whisper to me—
“Come home.”
They were my only peace,
my only silence,
my only truth.

I scream for help
from a glass fortress—
bare soul,
bleeding mind.
But somehow,
you make it about you.

Am I not human?
Do I not deserve love
that doesn't come with a leash?

Unconditional love is extinct—
a fossil of something real.
Man, I miss real…
Real conversation.
Real connection.
Real peace.

My hands are shaking.
But I don’t keep pills in the house.
My hands are shaking.
But I don’t keep ***** in the house.
****.

My mirror is crying.
...Wait.
That’s me.
At least—
what’s left of me.

I don’t even recognize my own cold eyes
as I sit
crying on the bathroom floor,
shower running so my wife doesn’t hear,
hugging myself,
screaming into my palms,
trying to smother the voices—

SHUT THE **** UP.

But they don’t.
They never do.
They remind me
what a lost cause I am.

And sometimes,
sometimes I wonder
if even my kids love me conditionally.
(God, that’s disgusting to think...)

But it’s in my head—
and that’s the worst place to be.
Even my therapist quit on me.
No text. No warning. Just—gone.

Truly alone.

...

At least I have my voices.

Through Pain I'm Real (extended)
by E.J. Crowe

I awoke
smothered in a swollen pile of percs and blood.
Dizzy.
Shaking.
Guilt splitting my head like a rusted axe.

I tell myself I’ll be fine.
Carving a life out of empty 40s and pills.
Why do I do it?
To cope?
To make this fragile experience worth it?

We call it fun—
getting depressed,
heart shattered and wrecked.
Looking into the void,
not knowing it stares back.

The siren’s call of Pandora’s box...

Sniff pills.
Drink.
Clear my head.
Get on my skateboard.
Slurred words.
Stumbling.
Sweating.
Crashing.

Only knowing it’s real
when I bottom out—
sprawled in the street,
bleeding and scared.

Only then
do I know this is my reality.
The demons and voices
silenced forcefully
by heavy doses of narcotics
and Newport 100s.

And I can’t help but smile—
my dissociated state
finally grounding me
back to something.

Through pain,
I’m real.

Finally I Can Sleep
By E.J Crowe

Groggy as I come to—
Vision blurred—
Surrounded by a puddle of puke,
Cigarette ash and Budweiser perfume the air like rot in my lungs.

I'm half-naked,
Head jackhammering,
Tooth gone—
Who the **** am I?
Where the **** am I?

Next to me,
A dark-haired woman lies still—
Dried ***** mats her curls like glue from last night’s regret.
I glance around—
Subway station.
Concrete.
Filth.
Stale **** thick like ghosts in the air.

Then—
A loud noise—

"******* STOP!! MY HEAD!!"

The train.
It roars through my skull,
Splitting me open,
Stimming, shaking, escaping,
Reality starts to unravel—
So I dig in my pocket,
Fingers fumbling for salvation.

A worn, unmarked bottle—
Pop one…
Maybe I’ll forget again.
Another…
Maybe I’ll feel better.
Another…
Maybe I’ll O.D.

She gasps awake,
But she’s not really here—
Half-blind, incoherent,
I lift her—***** and all—over my shoulders,
Her hair stings my nose but I don’t flinch.
I should be used to this.
This is my life.

On the train again,
Noise like God screaming,
I collapse into a seat.
Light a smoke.
Nod off.
The world moves.
I recognize the stops—
My town.
My home.
A sliver of hope beneath this decay.

We stumble to my front door.
Dad opens it.
I whisper—

"Help her. She needs to sober up."

Bloodshot eyes.
Cold sweats.
Puke-stiff hair.

He looks at me like death just spoke and murmurs—

"What friend?"

I look beside me.

Nothing.
No one.

She never existed.
I made her.
Built her in my mind so I wouldn’t have to shoot up alone.
So I could pretend I wasn’t this far gone.

He punches me in the face—
And for the first time in days,
Weeks,
Years…

Finally… I can sleep.

Flawed, Love
by E.J. Crowe

I get chills trying to love—
cold sweats, goosebumps,
when **** starts to weave right for once.
I self-destruct.
Blow up.
Turn toxic in the worst way.
Push the webs of depth and truth
to the darkest corners.

I yell.
I swear.
I break ****.

Why?
When love = pure.
But for me, pure =
hidden agendas,
secrets and ***** whispers.

My life only feels normal
when surrounded by chaos and pain—
that’s how my parents and foster homes molded me.
My love ballets are spiteful, *****.
“You stupid *****, you dumb *****,”
as I choke her and feel her wetness.
That’s passion.
That’s love.

Bedroom erotica.
Most women love that.
Especially my wife.
She was there—
when I was homeless, addicted.

Yet still,
tick tick tick,
I try and self-destruct.
The quiet explosion.
Tension.
Fake arguments.
Secret love.

Can I be honest?
Can I deliver my flawed, honorable love?
Or is it just lust that makes me crazy?

Her curves—
a canvas to explore
with calloused hands.
Roaming.
A hitch in her breath.
A gasp—
as she wraps her legs around me
and pulls me deep.

Can I be normal?
Is this normal?

Long nights,
shallow thoughts,
while she sleeps in a lustful glazed haze.
She loves our intimate time—
when I degrade and choke.
Once it's over,
it’s like an elongated dream.
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”

Back to innocence.
Hand-holding.
Kissing.
And in that moment of calm,
I finally feel something close to peace.

She kissed my scars like they were scripture,
and I bled peace for the first time.

"The Box"
by E.J. Crowe

Here in the dark,
I feel safe
from a crude, despicable world.

I shroud myself in darkness
and self-loathing,
my mind races like euphoria
seeping through the fragile cracks
of my forever-decaying mind.

I sit in the woods
and ponder in deep-rooted thought.
Society already discarded me—
labeled me roadkill,
useless,
a loser.

They might as well have handed me
a loaded gun,
a noose,
a heavy bottle of Percs and Oxys,
forever deluding my sense
of social connection.

I chose to stay away from the humans.
This is peace—
among famine, war,
and hateful people
with fake smiles
and hollow souls.

I only feel whole
laying in the woods,
my only company:
a half-empty 40
and a crushed pack of cigarettes.

Smoke.
Think.
Smoke.
Drink.
Smoke.
Stop.

My soul cannot forgive this world.
It's forever lost
and ******.

I choose to dance in silence
with the voices in my head,
confronting my own demons.

Through the box,
I see the truth.
That’s peace.

"Through the Cracked Door"

My childhood was empty—
Bleak.

Not at first.
Through the looking glass,
we looked like the Hallmark dream—
smiles painted on,
love rehearsed.
A family photo framed in lies.

But behind the cracked door,
beneath the peeling paint,
through dilapidated windows and stained curtains—
you’d see the truth.

Abuse.
Trauma.
No lullabies. No warm embraces.
Might as well have strung the noose themselves—
wrapped tight 'round my throat.
My heart beat loud in my chest
as I heard my father’s footsteps—
a countdown to pain.
The only peace I knew
was silence.

Do they love me?
They must… right?

Mom—numb on pills,
Dad—gambling away rent money,
Dinner—skipped.
Bruises—not.
Blood. Scars.
Lies wrapped in lullabies that never came.

When do I get saved?

Foster care?
Another joke.
Another hollow house,
cracked foundations.
Smiles made of plastic and practiced phrases.
But when the social worker left—
it was back to beatings.
Back to blood.
Back to scars.

When does it end?

Wire wrapped around my heart,
blood filling my ears,
voices fade—
I’m fading.
I’m lost.

Fast forward.
Hit play.

I’m 16.
Homeless.
Ran away.

Found comfort in poisons—
drugs, *****,
and strangers’ arms.

My blood became my ink.
Pain became my voice.
Cold. Alone.
But finally—
free.

Only Been an Hour"

The fragile cracks of my mind,
decapitated, decayed—
like a festering wound,
a portal to the unknown.

My clouded thoughts
once wore a hollow mask—
a smile painted in panic,
a joke to cloak the hurt.

“Hi, how are you?”
I ask, out of habit,
too scared to leave the comfort
of my hollow home.

A hermit,
lost in the midst of madness,
questioning everything:
Am I normal?
Am I okay?
I must be—
I'm still alive, still pulsing...
But it all feels like a deep ruse
to hide my trauma.

Am I me?
Or am I plastic?

A lone wolf taught to bottle his pain—
because “that’s just how men are raised,” right?

The pressure builds,
and I can’t take it.
One drink—
and my emotions bleed
through the cracks in my façade.
Another drink—
and another...

Now I’ve got my tiger stripes,
I’ve got my confidence.
But I’m numb.
No joy. No fear.
Just silence.

Is this real?

Maybe a line.
Some blow.
A pill.
Blackout.

I wake in a puddle of *****—
shirtless, sweating, shaking—
a corpse with a pulse.

Is this me?

I hear muffled voices
as I come to in a hospital bed.
No questions asked,
just dismissal.
Back home.

Back to silence.

I cry myself to sleep
as the clock ticks,
pounding like a hammer
in my skull.

It’s only been an hour.

"Welcome, Black Sheep"
by E.J. Crowe

To the humans that drift in between—
the ones life cast aside, marked as trash.
Why?
Because you're an addict: *****, pills, ****, cigarettes.
All man-made, not God-given.
The Lord sees us in His image—
until we sin.
Good equals bad.
Bad equals chaos.
One cannot thrive without the other.
World peace?
A pipe dream, forged by hopeless humans
for a false sense of security.
A marvel.
A utopia born from delusion.

To the addict who didn’t make it out—
I'm sorry.
Your funeral was beautiful.
You looked majestic. Clean.
A perfect family model now, I guess.
But why the fake suit?
Why the empty words?
No one wants to accept the guilt
of making you a black sheep.
A martyr.

But I saw you.
I saw the silent cries
through needle-laced veins,
your glass mask,
your bloodied eyes.
You were the truth—unfiltered.
At least you had the ***** to be you.

Through the rabbit hole—
how deep does it sway?
Which pill do you take?
Red or blue?
Reality or comfort?
Blurred contrasts of fake existence.

“Drugs are bad,” they scream
from their ivory towers,
judging God’s creation
through man’s corruption.

I was an addict.
I loved to pop pills.
I loved throwing up blood
and waking up in unfamiliar towns,
in strange houses,
sweating,
smelling like shame and stale cigarettes.

Wash that truth down
with your cold beer.
I loved to party.
And addiction loved me back, right?

Did it love the lost souls too?
That’s a loaded question—
barreled with flaws and hollow points.
A hard truth,
etched in scars and injection marks.

Welcome to the family,
fellow black sheep.