Jun 2015
Spit it out. Let it go. I am screaming, pleading, wishing the words would come. Yet they don’t. The page sits empty. Blaring white into my eyes as if to say “you’re not creative.” I want to say I am creative. I am supposed to be creative. However, when I thought I was creative it was chemically induced. So where the chemicals creative? I think about those old mixes of Carbon, Hydrogen, Nitrogen, Chlorine, and Oxygen.
C16H13ClN2O was my writing partner and my best friend. We went through so much together, though I’ll admit I was a bit clingy. These chemicals blended like warm water through my veins. Like a cool breeze on a spring day. My chest fills with Helium and I could float away. Milligrams pass through time; the words just fell onto the paper. The letters rained down with tears and blood until the sun was rising and I was no more found than before. The venting was relentless and filled no more voids than it created. The rhymes were so easy, the stanzas formed into beautiful verses of a lost soul with too much weight of the world crashing down. I wasn’t spiting it out, I was throwing it up.
C17H13ClN4 was the voice I never had. It was the confidence to tell anyone to *******, and that meant everyone. When this chemical melody was carried throughout my bloodstream. The only creative thing it brought out of me was my creative ways of finding food in an empty kitchen. This re-uptake inhibitor was just the pill to get me through the day in a world that I hated. It was the personification of my hate. I literally was spitting my words into the universe. No paper could withstand.
C11H15NO2 was the lover you wanted to cook you breakfast, but ***** on you instead. And C18H21NO4 was the catalyst to the end. All these blends changed my mind in many different ways. At times they made me feel like an author, at other times they made me feel worthless.
Years later now and the sober me enjoys the absences of these chemicals for I like the natural mix that is me. Though, I do crave the words. I lust for the flow. Creativity is a luxury of the depressed. Because now that my life is happy and settled I can’t find anything prolific to say. I have much to say but no way to spit it out.
C16H13ClN2O was my writing partner and my best friend. We went through so much together, though I’ll admit I was a bit clingy. These chemicals blended like warm water through my veins. Like a cool breeze on a spring day. My chest fills with Helium and I could float away. Milligrams pass through time; the words just fell onto the paper. The letters rained down with tears and blood until the sun was rising and I was no more found than before. The venting was relentless and filled no more voids than it created. The rhymes were so easy, the stanzas formed into beautiful verses of a lost soul with too much weight of the world crashing down. I wasn’t spiting it out, I was throwing it up.
C17H13ClN4 was the voice I never had. It was the confidence to tell anyone to *******, and that meant everyone. When this chemical melody was carried throughout my bloodstream. The only creative thing it brought out of me was my creative ways of finding food in an empty kitchen. This re-uptake inhibitor was just the pill to get me through the day in a world that I hated. It was the personification of my hate. I literally was spitting my words into the universe. No paper could withstand.
C11H15NO2 was the lover you wanted to cook you breakfast, but ***** on you instead. And C18H21NO4 was the catalyst to the end. All these blends changed my mind in many different ways. At times they made me feel like an author, at other times they made me feel worthless.
Years later now and the sober me enjoys the absences of these chemicals for I like the natural mix that is me. Though, I do crave the words. I lust for the flow. Creativity is a luxury of the depressed. Because now that my life is happy and settled I can’t find anything prolific to say. I have much to say but no way to spit it out.
Not really a poem, I can't seem to write them well anymore. I am rusty and I am trying.
