She was the pill
I was the addict
Now I’m just trying to overdose

spun
tiny orchestras
the pill on your tongue
the straw that breaks your back

Sipping bittersweet coffee
To drag me slowly
From my state
To motivate
The feeling growing
Heart pumping
Faster, harder
Brain less deadened
A little shaky
One more
Sounds just right...

You tried
To love
A girl

On the verge
Of losing
Reality

A stage
In her life
Where

All
She could
Do

Was
Write

As a
Form
Of
Psychiatry.

The world around me is revolving slowly
While the people surrounding move faster & faster
As I am caught in between the fibers of time

Why am I here?
Do I even belong?

My only therapy is the songs I hear in my head
My only medication is the drugs that make me wish I were dead

I'm just a shell of my former self.
I'm not what I used to be.

It seems there's no resolution,
only an empty cell waiting for me in this institution.

Dear diary, please help me now.

There's only so much abuse I can inflict upon myself.

The cuts on my wrist, the empty bottle of pills
The lacerations on my fist, shaking from the anger still.

I've got my fix, each line getting me higher
The only answer getting clearer, as my lows keep climbing to the ladder.

My sanity escaping.
Depression creeping
As the ghost of death takes over me.

Oh diary, it seems it's goodbye to you and me.
It seems no matter what I do, the world isn't going to accept me.

I'll never belong.

I'll always be different.

Goodbye and goodnight.

I'll see you on the other side.

----------------------------

Dear diary, I'm an addict.

Yesterday was proof of concept.

Tomorrow is a death wish.

If I don't do something now,
I may never get to see the light of day.

Dear diary, please help me now.

Because I can't do this alone anymore.

Everyone has an addiction.
Some, simpler than others.
Some, the worst things on earth.
But most of them,
Albeit all of them,
Are trying to numb something that tears them to shreds.

I got a bit high
And tried to capitalize
The numeral five

He leans back in a rusting fold out chair,
Resting his eyes from the burn of yellow light,
Illuminating the cracked concrete floor.
He places a glowing cigarette between his lips,
Brushing his stained hands against the scruff of his beard.
He exhales,
And white puffs of smoke float out of his lungs,
Into the darkness of the night.
Swarms of ants circle like a storm around sticky spilt beer on the ground.
The panels across the walls shake,
As Jimmy Buffet’s voice blares from the radio,
An echoing voice inside his head.
The green light emitted from the radio reads 4:09 am,
Every inhale tastes like the irresistible stench of gasoline,
Destructive, yet consuming.
The fridge buzzes like white noise,
Blending into the sound of chirping crickets and rain.
The sticky summer air wraps itself around his skin.
A glass rests on the counter, filled to the brim.
The bubbles dance, tempting him.