I've been drinking

It's outlandish how I have to
                                   manage on this
mismanaged planet
                     and plan my life in this
**** land of sin I'm in

                                       Like choking on cinnamon
More like spoons full of sugar got
                                           Mary going down and popping medicine
So sick it makes you want to
                                     hold shut your nose hole with a clothes pin
Air out your ***** laundry
          Let the funk blow in the wind
                        then throw all your dreams away in a clothes bin.

                                                   Look at me
        I'm sitting here faintly inebriated with this picture I've painted
        
        Judging other people's vices..

Sometimes I can.
Sometimes I can't.
Sometimes I will myself not to.
Sometimes I can accomplish mighty things.
Conquer the conquest.
Alleviate the alleged adversity and
Lay to waste the synthetic, apparent, circumstantial cluster of torrential downpour.
When it rains it pours. And when I sleep the demons soar.
But my mind is more powerful, much more resilient.
My heart is infinitely harder than any that are  forceful before it.

I can, have, and will overcome any and all.
I exist, and not anything else can change my solstice.

Chocolate colored Toms, Cool Blue and Navy, too,
North Face jacket, give me some individuality
I wanna feel ethereal; violently, annoyingly
happy. But the sky is as black as lonely cancer
without a soul mate; I know what it's like
to kiss as you erase her.

Hauntingly, melancholic instances ingrained
into my gelatin mind and
stayed.
And the smolder
from the brand on my shoulder
frayed.
I wish I could alter my reflection,
but the mirror I've bought,
somebody else
made.

Across the bed, she has lain,
Not breathing not in vain.
My mood is as stoic as her skin's hue.

It started early with how the day
Cut ***** windows with sunlit rays,
Was as southern as a slice of honeydew.

She was leaning by the gate,
Like Christina Applegate,
As willing as a pauper without a clue.

I never asked her name,
To me, they were all the same.
(Somehow, I think this one might stick with me.)

There is an absence in her eyes
I have loved since her demise.
She will stay this way in my memory.

I pour the powder on her pale,
****** belly, then toot, inhale.
Through my nose, I feed my mind.

Sticky dryness of my mouth;
It's time to leave the south,
Go somewhere no one can find.

I can still hear the sound
Of the drive by shooting down
On the street from around the block.

The room is a vestibule
To the starlit harlot's tomb.
When I'm done, I leave her on the cot.

As I move through the door,
And leave behind the *****.
I muse, briefly, how I stay in the clear.

To all the good Catholic boys,
May you bang up lots of toys.
Have a ****** belly Christmas this year.

All the experiences
from life's coffers
I'm willing to take

To commit into text
with deliberate romanticism

My brand of unspoken poetry
with sense
only I can make

To rebut
my mind's
skeptic cynicism