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Gage D Nov 2017
It's easy
We all have addictions
Yours may be a man, a woman
The warm touch in a cold night
Justifying the steps you take the day before or the breaths of air you take to keep going
The reason you live
The satisfaction of the primal need to be with something reminisant of what you also are
Because it's accepted
It's okay
It may be your screen
The stimulation blaring into your eyes, sending electrical pulses into your brain and overloading your dopamine receptors
Telling you
Because it feels realer than it is
It's okay
It may be your money
The little baggies you sell for a few more dollars more than you bought it for yourself
Telling you that even though you're worried about your next light bill
You made it for the night, at the wrist of blood spilled or money stolen
It's okay
It may be your drugs
The pills you pop, the cigars you roll tightly but skinnily to save your cash, the line you snort in the bathroom at your friends house and hope they don't find residue on their counter from it
But your heart races
Telling you you got there again
And you can keep doing so until you run out of money from this check
It may be your drink
How light the load on your shoulder feels once that wine you chugged when no one was looking hits you
The way you feel a breeze on your spine that isn't there
You feel your mind start to move the way you want again
Telling you
For the night
Until the morning
You'll feel better
We all have our addictions
The difference is
Do you know you're addicted?
Gage D Sep 2017
To feel again feels like such a pipe dream,
It's too late to be awake
Is love real? Or is it a prolonged chemical reaction driving me to reproduce?
Is anything truly right? Or do people only concoct their vision of right and wrong to fulfill the human mind's need for justification?
We're born to clash,
The war is starting
I'm for the side that ends it all
Gage D Jul 2017
I always did best ******* up while ****** up.

Let's not do that thing again, where we talk like friends for two days before bringing up the **** Up, and then one of us makes a joke about how forgivable I am, knowing full well that's not a good thing. I ask you to leave me in the wastebasket of your mind, along with the drafts of your poems, which like me could have been been amazing had we just not gave up, respectively on our own projects. Don't let me pull you into this cycle I have of hurting everything I have close to me, because I can't ******* stay clean because I always have to run from my own mind. Let me collapse into myself like a star, a dying glimpse of light that can just wink out. For much like many stars we see I feel already dead,
It's just that that image hasn't reached everyone else yet.

I destroy people in attempts to build myself up. All I have left of many people that I thought I'd give the world for is the look on their face after I used that world to only break it over their ******* skull.
I desire reinvention, reminiscince, beauty and liveliness,
But it's reckless to desire things you can't create yourself,
Because then you have to buy those things.
My wallet's empty.
My soul is cold.

I replay looking up and seeing that car in front of mine just as often now as my favorite nights of walking down baton rouge streets, despite the filthiness I felt out there. I often wondered if the groups of men standing by the doors in those gas stations would follow me into the night and **** me for the 15 dollars in change they overheard the cashier give me. They probably needed it more. I often wondered if I'd be in the wrong place at the wrong time outside at those apartments. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was premonition rearing it's insightful head.
My aunt died a week after that accident. She was a much nicer person than I could ever hope to be. I lived, through bleeding out for hours in a trauma center because of my condition. She died in her sleep while I was out getting ****** up because I couldn't stop seeing that car in front of me. Maybe I'm seeing into a better timeline, where the bad are punished and the good are rewarded. This seems likely. The flashbacks end there, where maybe it should have all ended.

No true tales end as happily as you want them too. No one said the world is perfect. We are certainly not perfect. But these are too big of things to think on. I guess all I can hope is that I'll be able to fall asleep one of these nights.
Gage D Jun 2017
I see my family wasting away in comfort
I watch my life slip through my fingers
Youth is wasted on the young
Youth is wasted on the living
The living are wasted as youth

I need to escape
My mind
My home
This realm

Help me reach above the quicksand that is humanity,
And let me hope some form of being will pull me free

I'm drowning,
I'm giving blood,
As I'm dying, I'm finally alive
Gage D May 2017
Sometimes I get tired, and not in the conventional sense where sleeping will fix this issue. I grow tired of how eventually someone's mouth will run out of new ways to shape itself, to put out words to make you feel wanted and to make them seem present. Perhaps I listen too closely.
But I know now that with some people, you should never have turned your ear, you should have kept looking straight ahead, and their actions would tell you more than their words ever could.
Maybe it's all just overthought, maybe I'm just too  poetic, much like holding your best friend's hand in the living room of a stranger to stop the world from spinning.
Gage D May 2017
These moments move much too fast
For the shuttering of cameras to capture
Blurry stills are all we have,
The album seems to fill up faster
Before we're grown and taunt
Lessons burned and bridges taught
Sit still
And capture her beauty before it moves again
Gage D Jan 2017
"Do you ever miss me?", she asked, right before taking her lipstick-stained cigarette to her rose embalmed lips.
     "Do you want the truth, or the answer I tell everyone else when they ask that question?"
     She followed me out onto that porch earlier, from that loud room, filled with loud music and loud smoke. Before this night I hadn't seen or heard from her in months, but I knew seeing her again was inevitable. Hell, we had the same friends, I lived with one of them for God's sake.
    Her eyes avoided mine, but I wouldn't look away until she answered. I hoped so badly she would want the lie, so I could tell her no and she could think I overcame what she did to me, that I overcame coming home to that empty room where she was supposed to be. I didn't want to have to tell her that I miss her more and more with every passing moment, that I can't get her out of my head no matter how many of my funny smelling cigarettes I smoke down to a nub and how many sleepless nights I have that I don't tell anyone about. I couldn't tell her that I still search at the bottom of every bottle for her,  only to find that it's dry and barren. Her eyes finally meet mine.
     She says, "I was never good with choices"
     "Well I was never good with a lot of things"
     I see the pain in her eyes, which dart down again because she knows exactly what I'm talking about. But I know I'd see even more pain, and water in those eyes if I told her everything I wanted to say. That after she left I couldn't help but stick my **** in anything that moved, that I was constantly in pursuit for the rush I always had with her, and it was always fleeting. That the pills she had help me save myself from were in my system right now, making the weight on my chest from her being there even heavier.
     "I don't miss you. I'm doing better."
     I tossed my half-smoked cigarette into the yard instead of the ashtray in plain sight. Some stones are better left unturned. You can awaken a snake hiding under it, and there's no point in fighting a snake who's venom you know you have no defense against. I couldn't tell her that I needed to lay my head against her stomach to feel normal. I didn't need to tell her that I was sorry for the scars I left her, on her soul. She didn't need to know that I often thought of putting a shotgun shell through the roof of my mouth, either so these thoughts could leave me be forever, or so the damage caused by several lead pieces of buckshot punching through my skull would cause me to not know who she was and what she had done to me.
     I turn and step inside, and pour myself another drink.
My formatting *****
I'm not as sad as this may make me seem, it's just a scene I can't get out of my mind sometimes
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