If I had a cigarette
for every time a teacher, parent, or loved one told me I was worthless,
I'd have enough cigarettes
to clear my head.

And that's it,
that's all I need to do.
Maybe if I could clear my head and get some ******* sleep I could stop being so worthless.
Just give me a break, and something to distort reality and I'll be fine.

Friends have often asked me what's my drug of choice.
They say they've seen me ******, tweaking, drunk, numb, but they can't tell which I enjoy most.
My answer hasn't changed since I started using.
My answer simply remains: anything that gets me high.
Anything that allows me to think in a different way,
anything that mercifully allows me to not think is my drug of choice.

I'm sick, I have a disease, but I don't need your help.
I don't sleep or eat, but I don't need your help.

the easiest way to tell another of anxiety
is to simply say that it interrupts.

it interrupts your life,
gets in the way of love
and laughter.

Just like a well placed hyphen - anxiety interrupts

In the sky there is a lonely star,
and in my heart there is a starless sky.

With the help of friends and methamphetamines
its been forty-eight hours since I've slept
but I am not tired.

Last night I laid awake on a lovely boy's couch
thinking of the moments we spent together
and I couldn't help but replay them in my brain
over and over,
hoping beyond hope for sleep
and you to share it with.

I guess I didn't see your scars,
blame it on the lighting or the beer,
but I knew they were there.
As my hands felt their way across your beautiful landscape,
I took special care not to rest them upon the raised, pink lines,
not wanting you, for even a moment,
to think the thoughts you thought when you created them.

I would tear my skin wide open,
stretch it across all the seas seven hundred times,
if it meant a single, tiny scratch would never find it's way onto your body with the guidance of your hand, the guidance of your starless night sky of a heart.

I know you can see that I'm angry.
You can see it in my eyes,
hear it in my words,
and feel it in my touch.
Sure, I'm angry because you rejected me,
are continuing to reject me.
No, I'm not angry at you,
how could I be.
I'm angry at myself.
I have nothing to offer you,
I'm broke, unemployed, addicted.
I don't have a car, or good looks.
I don't have a big house, or presents to give you.

But I have dreams and a heart that I'm begging you to take.

It is all that I can give to you that you do not already have.

I guess this could be a romantic poem
but I quit smoking a week ago,
and a poem ain't romantic unless the poet is sitting alone, in the cold, smoking a cigarette and wishing his memories of her could burn with the cigarette. Which is, coincidentally, the last cigarette in his pack.
And besides, my insides have been feeling more hollow than ever, and a poem is only romantic if the writer is feeling romantic.

But I remember, about two weeks ago, not wanting to be trapped in the confines of these blank white walls, I went for a little walk. It was cold and I was smoking the last cigarette in my pack.
My eyes chances upon the stars and a deep unrest fell within my stomach. I thought of you, as I had been often doing, as I always do when I look at the stars. Not desiring life, and only wishing to sleep forever, I began walking home.
I crushed the cigarette under my boot and wished I could do the same with the small part of my heart that you still mercilessly hold.

I try not to paint it in a pretty light because there is nothing pretty about it.

It is strong and it is beautiful and it will knock you on your *** but it is not pretty.

It is black and cold and poisonous, and it practices it's art with extreme prejudice.

Whether you say its your last time or whether you say nothing, you are lying to yourself.

******, the dark mistress, whom I fly towards like a moth to a light on a dark night.

******, the cunning sorcerer, who has caught  me under his deadly spell.

I am not powerless to my addiction.
No, I am wrong, it is not MY addiction, I am the addictions user. But I will break free. Jeremy Freeman, the fastest gun west of the Sierra Nevadas.

Imagine there's a vitamin you can take that makes you feel euphoric and free of pain and any thoughts other than warmth. Imagine that the vitamin's effects will wear off rather quickly. Imagine the vitamin is rather costly. Imagine after weeks of taking the vitamin you begin to notice that the good feelings it gave you are no longer present and you are only taking the vitamin so you won't feel sick and cold and alone and depressed. Imagine the vitamin is making you steal money from your mother's purse to buy more. Imagine the vitamin is making you hold up your local corner store. Imagine you only desire the company of the vitamin, your friends and family no longer matter. Imagine being done with the vitamin but knowing that the vitamin is not done with you, not until it has destroyed every meaningful relationship in your life, ****** your soul dry and killed you.

Now, you are offered a choice: this imaginary vitamin, or your life.

Choose your life, choose your friends, choose football in the street, choose walks in the park with your sister but whatever you do, don't choose ******.