I feel my brain turning to porridge.
That thick,sticky concoction of experience:
Too many late nights, whiskey mornings, and "just one small line" excuses.
Always feeding my destruction with that juggling act of addiction.
Reducing my pain to a single act,
Reusing myself and others around me,
Recycling what little hope I have left.
My insides would be a sorry sight to see, so far from the person people know me as.
They don't feel the weight of my brain, the cement blocks of my thoughts.
I wish I could pop the hood, clean between the folds, and blow away the dust.
I identify with the abandoned and derelict buildings of the city,
Broken and abused, but still foreboding with their skeletons from another time.
I admire them for their character, their strength to still have their beauty long after their makers have forgotten it.
For what are we except the architecture of existence?
Each one of us a landmark:
To family, a lover, a friend.
We are shadows in their skyline...
Until one day,
We fall.