I want to hit it hard, not romanticize about the blood ya feel me?
As you read that first line,
when you cross over to the second,
your nose will start to bleed just before my fist connects with your face.
I often dream about it, being feared.
The only reason that you're on the ground is because I put you there.
Quite frankly I'm fearful of myself.
My throat still holds the ache of the alcohol going down.
I swear to you I'm doing better.
I swear.

I can't swear in this house hold so I will talk so quickly creating run on sentences without punctuation or breath because I'm panicking over nothing in particular.

******.

Add some shakes to your vocabulary and you've got it right.
My medication puts stray dogs under my finger nails, that's ok because dogs are happiness.
That's supposed to mean I'm happy.

I made myself write this, its horrifyingly scattered just like my head.

That's not right.
That's wrong.
Something is terribly wrong so I must fix it.

That's what I do,
I fix.
I'll just look at this as art.
Some persons trash is another ones treasure.

I'm too scared to write anymore.


This is garbage.