I don't believe in done.
I don't believe in unbroken,
or finished, perfection,
spotlessly clean.
It's all a lie.
We all breaks, cracks,
I don't believe in always.
Then again...
When it comes to my brother's
addiction he will always be
drowning in alcohol. ***** whiskey, tequila.
His brain has become and will stay
barren.
I don't believe in recovered,
or survivor, trauma rotting into
your brain. The person you were, just
died, a masterpiece scrapped.
I believe in lost. Hopelessly lost.
Because I am there, or here. I
no longer walk the ground of this
earth, but rather the quicksand of
my memories. Stepping as quick
as I can, trying to find a way
out of my most recent delusions.
I can feel each hurricane of
another flashback and revel in it.
Thinking I'm revolting against him,
but really I'm just letting his
fingerprints from the crime scene
strip me of my pride again.
I'm not sure I believe in hope,
in love, in reality. I don't know my
stance on revenge, hate, vengeance, pride.
I know I'd rip his tongue out, or maybe
just half. So he can still taste his own
blood. Jam my fingers in the mess, so he can
see how it feels to have his blood on my hand.
Play our relationship in reverse. Rewind my nightmares,
see my body being put back together by
time. Slowly I am no longer burning.
I would simply slip away. Get out
of his hold, head locks, and being restricted.
No bruises, no police, no reports, no detectives,
no more holes missing from my being.
I believe in avoiding possibilities.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 10:27 AM UTC
I don't believe in done.
I don't believe in unbroken,
or finished, perfection,
spotlessly clean.
It's all a lie.
We all breaks, cracks,
I don't believe in always.
Then again...
When it comes to my brother's
addiction he will always be
drowning in alcohol. ***** whiskey, tequila.
His brain has become and will stay
barren.
I don't believe in recovered,
or survivor, trauma rotting into
your brain. The person you were, just
died, a masterpiece scrapped.
I believe in lost. Hopelessly lost.
Because I am there, or here. I
no longer walk the ground of this
earth, but rather the quicksand of
my memories. Stepping as quick
as I can, trying to find a way
out of my most recent delusions.
I can feel each hurricane of
another flashback and revel in it.
Thinking I'm revolting against him,
but really I'm just letting his
fingerprints from the crime scene
strip me of my pride again.
I'm not sure I believe in hope,
in love, in reality. I don't know my
stance on revenge, hate, vengeance, pride.
I know I'd rip his tongue out, or maybe
just half. So he can still taste his own
blood. Jam my fingers in the mess, so he can
see how it feels to have his blood on my hand.
Play our relationship in reverse. Rewind my nightmares,
see my body being put back together by
time. Slowly I am no longer burning.
I would simply slip away. Get out
of his hold, head locks, and being restricted.
No bruises, no police, no reports, no detectives,
no more holes missing from my being.
I believe in avoiding possibilities.
Boy oh boy
