There has been
moments and
sometimes
even years when
I've submitted
myself to
them.

Celebrated false
joys with
them,
spent and consumed
with them.
Turned a blind eye
and focused
on nothing
with them.

I found their ways
grueling and murderous,
they killed the soul
first while
seizing the mind
with pointless
goals.

I tried talking
to some of
them
but found it as
uncomfortable
as conversing
with a
cop on a Sunday.

Accepted it for
what it was.
Embraced what
it is I
truly am.

Unlike them,
against them
and inherently
on my
own.

The only true
joy lays within
the ***** and the
Poppy.
The softness
of the women's
painted
lips.
The discovery of
words
of prose written
by a long
dead drunk.

The sound of
recorded music
by Frusciante
and the
times alone
when the pencil
meets the paper
and all of
whatever
this is
comes to be..