Moldy coffee and ***** socks
fight for space among graying memories of memories as the dirge
in my head plays on.

It's like a hearing test that lasts every waking moment, this ******* ringing in my ears.

It's 3am again and death is in the air,
so close to home I feel the ancient heat
of leathery wings on my tired shoulders.

So tired

This tired body of mine,
I've really put it
through the ringer.
I've gotten some good miles
out of it.
The *******,
The car wrecks,
The *******,
The fistfights,
The beatings,
The *******,
The drugs
and the *****
and all that *****.
The mosh pits
and the miles walked
and all of those crazy
dangerous risks
all in the name of fun.

I should have died so many times

I didn't though.
I'm here.
I'm alive.
I'm still giving it
right back
to the *******
and getting all
the *** I can,
while I can.

Your God wants me to be happy

So I took the drugs
and the punches.
I walked for miles
and sat on the beaches
and woke up in holding cells
and found out what it
means to truly love
and felt what it's
like to die from
the inside out.

I've been at one with every
molecule in the universe
that ever has been
and will be.
I've seen the spirits lights
while the first ones
sang and drummed as I
wept in the dark.

I've felt shame
and fear
and loss of hope;
hunger pangs
mingled with glorious
hallucinations.

Life is but a dream

Really though,
dearest,
none of that matters
when I'm alone
at 3 am.