I sit at a kitchen table
That does not belong to me
And I stare into this glass of dark liquid

It fizzes at the top
Like a nice childhood memory
But the smell, reminds me of those days
That can be so contradicting

Music, laughs, and pictures are all taken place
With light heads and impaired balance.

So I keep taking drinks , but my glass doesn't empty
My conscience doesn't care
Just like his

I tell myself these are two different situations
But it feels all the same.

This dark liquid destroyed me
So why did I give in

The lines that are etched in my skin
don't signify that I'm not right, not okay.
To me, they're a sign that I'm here and alive,
that I lived through a whole new day.

I made a place for myself
in my skin, not some medicine-cabinet shelf.
Yet, you still try to offer me help.

I get it. You're disappointed.
I'm fine. I get your point...
but you still tell me to change my ways.

If I'm suffering madness,
please don't mistake it as sadness,
I've got it all under control.

I'm remarkably glad
for the moments I've had,
I'd never think to trade them away.

So don't look at my skin
and the way that it bruises,
or the cracks that form canyons within.

Please, just look at my soul.
It's under control.
I wear these wounds proudly, I'd say.

The ancestral diet of Stars, being Other Stars
has left no scars, save open black and yawning vast.
No retrograde Oblivion... only galactic swirls
and elastic Space between worlds. that never last.

and Eternity.

my modernity nips and pleats my yellow teeth
after long whitening by paste and bristle. i chew the gristle
of the dead sow
and club the weaning pups of Cerberus
with an eyelash and a long blink.
i tread the narrows, flatly -
and conquer the quizzical  conundrums
by simply asking.  
My Rocket Science... laughing
at your grecian urn
to paint the herrings red.

i'm out of my depth.

but yes means 'yes' and we ' no' it.

if Nothing else.