Coming outa the fog that was a steady binge I reailzed it had all
changed.
No longer was I the in demand writer but more like a sad cliff note
to a on going trainwreck.

People either stopped by to view the specticle or laugh at the
man who no longer was what they secretly hated.
The drinks but a old vice and my only true friend who held the
promise of my death.

The night befor had been a display of Gonzo like a vetran preformer
I played the role empty to myself yet the joke they did thirst to
know to see that spark and relive vision's of a burning fire.

To have the safe laugh with the old drunkard.
My eyes but a store window to a long since closed business.
I had become a human ghost town a walking monument to
the strange case of what used to be.

There taunts were clear hidden under a mocking yet sweet candy
covered lie.
tormented like a lion in a zoo who's rage if released would
make them run in sheer terror if only they could imagine the violence
that loomed in my thoughts.

But I just continued to extinguish that fire every drink
kept it at a dull smolder.

They wanted the image the walking joke not the truth.
like a burnt out ****** eventhough it killed me i still
craved that feeling of utter acceptance in the reality of it's
true rejection.

The road called to me as it viewed me as a lost love
who had fallen and was notning more than a sad parody
of a once brave yet now bitter soul.

The mystery of that last great journey still did awake me.
The heart is a highway it's road looms on into the horizen.
Hitting deadends and emotional near insane crossroads.

And I no longer was numb enough to take it's punishment.
Th scrapbook of my mind was full yet pages were added by the drop.

The final chapter waited.
But befor it's end it must be lived.

Alone I knew this was the last stand and only when you walk through hell do you understand how it feels to rest in silence.
A circus preformer left with only posters and trinkets to recall
thoose failed glory's.

One last battle still did wait.
All i needed was one last spark.
So began my trip from paridise to hell.

The words my guide the whiskey my fuel.
Insanity my old friend in battle.
And this semi thing called reality my willing rival.

As writers we thirst for perfection and all its beautiful destruction.
As for gonzo it was all down hill from here kids.