The burning liquor slides down the back of her throat
as euphoria sweeps over her like an antidote
for the despair within her very soul -
and now she’s no longer in control.
She doesn’t drink because she likes the taste
but to forget every single trauma she has faced.
My biological "father" is currently in jail. I cut him out of my life.
My mother raised me. I'm glad she's in my life.
My grandfather who I call my father raised me but died when I was 5. I'm angry he's not in my life.
What I'm saying here is that I lost my "father" to drugs and alcohol. But I lost my father due to cancer.
Every time I pick up a pen, I think failure.
I think addicted to a blade
shackled to a bottle
captivated by little pills that hold my sanity in their capsules
But today I want to write strength.
I want to write beautiful.
I want to write go ahead and try me again
God made me more than a conqueror.
Because if dependence upon a blade makes me weak
I wonder how I ever had the strength
to get up off my knees
at the age of five
when all I wanted to do was lay down and die
I'm writing courage because even though
he defiled my body
I'm sick of writing how much I hate what I've become
sick of blaming myself for the abominations
that you and I performed
was it me
or was it you?
Did I poison your youth, too?
Did I carve regret into your skin
when you were just a little kid?
Regardless, today I carve perfection
because that's what shows in my reflection
I'll trade you shoes
but won't trade scars
because most are written on my heart
and not for one second do you deserve to have
what brought me through this pain
I hope the piece you stole from me dances on your grave.
Meanwhile, I'll be writing back my hope
that had slowly slipped away
It must have been those bottles that ruined me, right?
Not those visits I received so many times during the night?
But if finding escape through a drink makes me distorted
I wonder how I ever managed to turn
perverted kisses into defiance
and taboo touches into faith
that one day, not me, but God
would condemn you to your fate.
I'm writing forgive so I can look at you
and know that I'm the better man.
I'm writing confidence so the next one of you that comes along
will be meeting my backhand.
- Graves -
Let me think...
Should I write this with a bottle?
Should I write this with a pen?
Should I write this out in teardrops?
Carve the words into my skin?
I do it best when I am hiding.
Do it best when I'm alone.
I do it best when no one's watching me
when no one else is home.
Can you see me in the corner?
Can you see me on the floor?
Can you see me in the shadows?
See me crawling through the door?
It's okay that you're not listening.
It's okay that you don't care.
It's okay that you don't remember me
that you were never really there.
- Graves -
Oh, darling, don't you see?
You don't want to be like me.
Go back to your dolls, baby girl,
you'll understand eventually.
You saw me doing what?
No, sweetie, I've just got something in my eye.
I'm not crying.
I'm not lying.
I'm not popping pills like bubble gum.
I'm not drinking 'til my mind goes numb.
You shouldn't hang on the words I say.
Sometimes they are lies.
I don't like how you're always watching me.
I can't escape your eyes.
These scars? Honey, you know me.
I've always been a little wild.
Please, don't copy the things I do.
I'm only still a child!
Dearest, yes, I love you!
Don't you understand?
Can't you see?
It's too dangerous for you to be like me.
- Graves -
They are talking to me.
Pulling me toward them like the sun
controls the spinning of the planets
They whisper sweet promises in my ear
that we will find somewhere to run from
those that hold us back.
They're holding me.
And I can sense the grasp they have on me
with every clink...
clink... as the bottles call my name.
And I can't escape the yearning
to subject myself to their claim.
I can't shake the voices in my head
that tell me one...
time... just to stop the shaking.
I can't repress the way my body quivers
or how my heart is racing.
My fingers long to draw again
on paper skin...
thin... to release some of the fear.
My fingers long to wipe away
those precious crimson tears.
They are killing me
with their forked tongues and flames
they steal the truth from honest lips.
- Graves -
bound by rage sits that boy
spitting each hate written verse
at the snakes in the pavement he
grovels at their boot heels
those uppity freaks and geeks
their creased neat sheik fake kicks
and their bunched up forehead creases scrunching and smashing back
years of emotional blanketing
santioning counseling so you learn to go to your corners and cry but no
why wouldn't you just curl up
if you hide deeper in the covers maybe
he won't hit you tonight
maybe he won't end things in a scream
maybe he will let you fly away
so you learn to get up and dust off
yourself burn the blankets and
build a pair of wings yourself.
icuras flew to close to the sun, but it was a damn nice view.