Sometimes I think that my depression fuelled my creativity.
And now that the dark times don’t need the help of bottles,
I cant help thinking that I running on empty, and I got nothing left to say.
Chasing the pain that is so deep within me, and the **** that shaped me
The images I made with my words and pens
Are nothing but a memory of a sad and lonely 20 something
But the clouds have broken, the rain is letting up, and the sun is peeking through
And all I have are the curiosities of what happens if I start drinking like I did.
I am no longer eligible for the 27 club, and Ill never be famous
And the hurt that I try to remember, will not make those images brighter
It will only hurt my friends and my mother.
So here is a sober, conscious attempt at poetry, trying to find my voice
Without the glass containers that used to help me forget.