Nov 2019
—March 24th, 2019:
I told my happiness that I wanted it home at 11pm tonight;
it stumbled in at 3am drunk;
except it wasn't happiness at all actually,
it was anxiety that ****** grief one too many times
it was the ugly truth staring me in the face
daring me to change.
I've cried over one too many skeletons in my closet
in between the winter sweaters and lingere
I can't decide what to do with myself half the time.
I have this gaping hole in my chest
and I've been trying to fill it with alcohol
like my father does
still does
will continue to do
except it isn't working so why are both of us trying.
solutions are like old dogs
you can't teach new tricks
and it's finally spring time and the rain
has dealt poker faces and smeared makeup tears
and I just want the blackjack joke to end
when will the tsunamis be here
when
and yet now for the first time in a long time I know what it's like
dealing with losing somebody that you haven't really lost
just he's having fun somewhere else
without you
and you aren't.
a tough pill to swallow
more like a harder bullet to bite
there's too much
too much too much too much
sickness bubbling inside of me and every word
that attempts to comfort me.
maybe I'm not drunk texting anyone
but maybe just ******* maybe
I'm drunk writing because honestly?
the wordsmith within has died and come back to life
and it's out of practice but not out of mind and I
haven't come to terms with that yet.
I have laid in bed all day and now I will lay in bed all night
wondering which is the best way to silence the swarm of bees that constantly produce chaos like honey in my pretty little head cause;
nothing makes sense like it used to
like it used to
asking for help these days feels like a punishment because
I have this undying thirst for constant attention or validation and
it's worse than cancer
the symptoms are raging
the doctors don't know what cure could fit into these veins
and nurses can't stomach the dark and ugly memories beneath my skin
only once centimeter down.
"to be, or not to be"
is such a silly thought strung up with fictional mourning
but somehow we make them flesh because Shakespeare seemed to get it,
he seemed to be able to wrap his head around all of the nonsense and translate it into a language we could comprehend
how does one do that
take the impossibles and make them
plausible.
cause one day the earth is going to hear me
roar, whisper,
electrecute the heavens---
I will speak for the masses
and I will speak for myself.
And this world,
will rest in perfectly in my palm
like eggs in a nest
that the universe set an alarm for.
—
I told my happiness that I wanted it home at 11pm tonight;
it stumbled in at 3am drunk;
except it wasn't happiness at all actually,
it was anxiety that ****** grief one too many times
it was the ugly truth staring me in the face
daring me to change.
I've cried over one too many skeletons in my closet
in between the winter sweaters and lingere
I can't decide what to do with myself half the time.
I have this gaping hole in my chest
and I've been trying to fill it with alcohol
like my father does
still does
will continue to do
except it isn't working so why are both of us trying.
solutions are like old dogs
you can't teach new tricks
and it's finally spring time and the rain
has dealt poker faces and smeared makeup tears
and I just want the blackjack joke to end
when will the tsunamis be here
when
and yet now for the first time in a long time I know what it's like
dealing with losing somebody that you haven't really lost
just he's having fun somewhere else
without you
and you aren't.
a tough pill to swallow
more like a harder bullet to bite
there's too much
too much too much too much
sickness bubbling inside of me and every word
that attempts to comfort me.
maybe I'm not drunk texting anyone
but maybe just ******* maybe
I'm drunk writing because honestly?
the wordsmith within has died and come back to life
and it's out of practice but not out of mind and I
haven't come to terms with that yet.
I have laid in bed all day and now I will lay in bed all night
wondering which is the best way to silence the swarm of bees that constantly produce chaos like honey in my pretty little head cause;
nothing makes sense like it used to
like it used to
asking for help these days feels like a punishment because
I have this undying thirst for constant attention or validation and
it's worse than cancer
the symptoms are raging
the doctors don't know what cure could fit into these veins
and nurses can't stomach the dark and ugly memories beneath my skin
only once centimeter down.
"to be, or not to be"
is such a silly thought strung up with fictional mourning
but somehow we make them flesh because Shakespeare seemed to get it,
he seemed to be able to wrap his head around all of the nonsense and translate it into a language we could comprehend
how does one do that
take the impossibles and make them
plausible.
cause one day the earth is going to hear me
roar, whisper,
electrecute the heavens---
I will speak for the masses
and I will speak for myself.
And this world,
will rest in perfectly in my palm
like eggs in a nest
that the universe set an alarm for.
—
—an ode to my loneliness on a silver platter,
and all the wounds beneath.
© Copywrite Skaidrum
and all the wounds beneath.
© Copywrite Skaidrum
