Jul 2017
I always did best ******* up while ****** up.
Let's not do that thing again, where we talk like friends for two days before bringing up the **** Up, and then one of us makes a joke about how forgivable I am, knowing full well that's not a good thing. I ask you to leave me in the wastebasket of your mind, along with the drafts of your poems, which like me could have been been amazing had we just not gave up, respectively on our own projects. Don't let me pull you into this cycle I have of hurting everything I have close to me, because I can't ******* stay clean because I always have to run from my own mind. Let me collapse into myself like a star, a dying glimpse of light that can just wink out. For much like many stars we see I feel already dead,
It's just that that image hasn't reached everyone else yet.
I destroy people in attempts to build myself up. All I have left of many people that I thought I'd give the world for is the look on their face after I used that world to only break it over their ******* skull.
I desire reinvention, reminiscince, beauty and liveliness,
But it's reckless to desire things you can't create yourself,
Because then you have to buy those things.
My wallet's empty.
My soul is cold.
I replay looking up and seeing that car in front of mine just as often now as my favorite nights of walking down baton rouge streets, despite the filthiness I felt out there. I often wondered if the groups of men standing by the doors in those gas stations would follow me into the night and **** me for the 15 dollars in change they overheard the cashier give me. They probably needed it more. I often wondered if I'd be in the wrong place at the wrong time outside at those apartments. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was premonition rearing it's insightful head.
My aunt died a week after that accident. She was a much nicer person than I could ever hope to be. I lived, through bleeding out for hours in a trauma center because of my condition. She died in her sleep while I was out getting ****** up because I couldn't stop seeing that car in front of me. Maybe I'm seeing into a better timeline, where the bad are punished and the good are rewarded. This seems likely. The flashbacks end there, where maybe it should have all ended.
No true tales end as happily as you want them too. No one said the world is perfect. We are certainly not perfect. But these are too big of things to think on. I guess all I can hope is that I'll be able to fall asleep one of these nights.
Let's not do that thing again, where we talk like friends for two days before bringing up the **** Up, and then one of us makes a joke about how forgivable I am, knowing full well that's not a good thing. I ask you to leave me in the wastebasket of your mind, along with the drafts of your poems, which like me could have been been amazing had we just not gave up, respectively on our own projects. Don't let me pull you into this cycle I have of hurting everything I have close to me, because I can't ******* stay clean because I always have to run from my own mind. Let me collapse into myself like a star, a dying glimpse of light that can just wink out. For much like many stars we see I feel already dead,
It's just that that image hasn't reached everyone else yet.
I destroy people in attempts to build myself up. All I have left of many people that I thought I'd give the world for is the look on their face after I used that world to only break it over their ******* skull.
I desire reinvention, reminiscince, beauty and liveliness,
But it's reckless to desire things you can't create yourself,
Because then you have to buy those things.
My wallet's empty.
My soul is cold.
I replay looking up and seeing that car in front of mine just as often now as my favorite nights of walking down baton rouge streets, despite the filthiness I felt out there. I often wondered if the groups of men standing by the doors in those gas stations would follow me into the night and **** me for the 15 dollars in change they overheard the cashier give me. They probably needed it more. I often wondered if I'd be in the wrong place at the wrong time outside at those apartments. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was premonition rearing it's insightful head.
My aunt died a week after that accident. She was a much nicer person than I could ever hope to be. I lived, through bleeding out for hours in a trauma center because of my condition. She died in her sleep while I was out getting ****** up because I couldn't stop seeing that car in front of me. Maybe I'm seeing into a better timeline, where the bad are punished and the good are rewarded. This seems likely. The flashbacks end there, where maybe it should have all ended.
No true tales end as happily as you want them too. No one said the world is perfect. We are certainly not perfect. But these are too big of things to think on. I guess all I can hope is that I'll be able to fall asleep one of these nights.
