"Pass me a shroom, give me the ****, hit up the ******, tap on the alcohol, and trip out on acid." That's what they all say in this world; that's how they get their high. But for you; I see it in your eyes Haley. You get a different high. No, you're not high on living life. You are high on trying to figure out how to life life. You hurt and I see that. You take away calories to increase your happiness. Some add more **** to there needle to increase their happiness. Whether you are taking or adding; you are hurting. What was your gateway? Was it the scale? The girl in the magazine sitting on the shelf? How about the "pretty, skinny girls" in bikinis at the beach? Like everything bad in life there is always a start to it. Some become a drug addict by smoking a cigarette; "oh, ill just do it once". Was it that way with you Haley? Just one less helping of the side that was for dinner, just one less snack, just one less meal. We always have false realizations for our self and it ***** we discover them in such a bad way. Did you enjoy the control that you could and can have over food? "They can't make me eat any more than i want do". Druggies like the lose of control too. They feel at ease with themselves in the moment and maybe the next few days; maybe you did too Haley. Druggies have close friends they smoke around, they don't dare let in newbies. I heard of your friend, Ana. She sounds like a scary person; yet you are aspiring to be her. Haley, you've got so much more to give and experience then these foul emotions. With all things in life there must be an end; this is your time to start a new chapter. Learn to live without your addicting. You can do it. 1 in ever 200 women have an eating disorder; 1 in every 300 are addicted to drugs. You can beat this.

In a wayward adventure in curiosity —
lured away from savvy of cooler judgment,  
he oversteps the bounds of reality 
into a state of altered awareness.

Overwhelmed by a rapid beginning
of a buzzing sensation — The Rush;
emanating from deep inside him, 
surging along the veins streaming 

euphoria through cells of his entire body:  
inside the body, with warm pleasure waves
flushing over the by now tingling skin —
soughing off all unpleasant feelings.

Mouth numbed, limbs heavy, and eyeballs 
rolling back from hitherto an unimaginable
state of bliss, he savours the calm explosions
of the pulsating bubbles in his head.

A magical moment of sheer ******* 
rapture—that ends in a lasting sedation—
during which he's dazed with wonderment
while covered by a cozy blanket of content.

He falls in love with the insidious drug.
And, he begins to relish its sweet fruition
in a seemly pattern of use that is put
in the shade to protect his best interests.

A stake in normalcy that seeks to restrict
his usage of the opioid to a social activity.
But soon enough he drifts towards a regular
recreational use: indulging on weekends,

floating, flying, and soaring in wonderful
ripples of pure delight, feeling very mellow
and satisfied, in an illusionary paradise of
forgetfulness where nothing hurts any more.

Bit by bit as time goes by his body builds up
a tolerance for the sedative, prompting his
intake of higher and more frequent doses
to feel as well as to sustain the desired effect.

This occurs because his body attempts to
adapt to the presence of the drug by quickly
breaking it up and purging it out of the system;
thus making it less potent as it was before.

At this stage of his drug abuse he's still able to
control whether to use the stuff or not, where
and when to use it, without stress. He could
also abstain from the opioid fairly responsibly.

But at the limits of his body's flexible response
to the dangerous substance, he begins to suffer
from its unpleasant side-effects that show up
a short period of time following his last use.

The pleasurable, but short-term, therapeutic
effects of the hard drug are now being
overshadowed by several of its undesirable
withdrawal symptoms that manifest as:

fatigue, irritability, cold chills/sweat, itchy skin,
muscle spasms and tremors, body ache, and
stomach cramps among others, with an
increase in his body's cravings for the opioid.

The onset of these torturous side-effects of
the stimulant marks the beginning of his body's
physical dependence on it, as he now relies
on the drug to fend off the terrible affliction.

He has bitten at the bait of pleasure oblivious
of the hook beneath it. The once casual user,
who had thought he could quit the habit at will
without stress, has progressed to problematic use.

The drug has become an integral part of a daily
routine that is gradually heading towards chaos.
Regardless, he's still able to go to work and
take care of his day to day responsibilities.

In time, a new sickness begins to fester inside
him: the opioid is tightening its grip on him,
as his body's physical dependence on it
is now generating his addiction to the drug.

This psychological dependence on the drug
has set in with anxiety disorder accompanied
by emotional and behavioural problems:
the duo classic signs of a progressive disorder.

The drug has become something he needs
to sleep or to fully wake up. His sleeping
pattern has also been altered; up at night
and intermittently dozing off during the day.

As dosage of the narcotic rises, so does
the torture of the painful lows and other
symptoms of addiction, making his cravings
for the sedative increasely more intense.

As it is, he's needs several hits of the drug to
make it through the day. All at once he wants
to use! He begins to look forward to using.
He would ingest the drug in risky situations

such as, while at the wheels of his car or
working at his job; always desperate to avoid
withdrawal symptoms as well as to revel in
the bliss of the drug's comforting warmth.

At times he'd skip work 'chasing the dragon':
pursuing the out-of-reach elation levels of
his initial euphoric high, swinging between
feelings of mediocrity and that of ecstasy.

Always, his body would afterwards crash
below baseline, barely able to cater for his
daily needs. The habit has long ceased
to be the fun that it was intended to be.

Like a vicious cycle the relief from the opioid,
which is not justified by external reality,
is being obtained at the expense of the
worsening addiction and a spike in distress

whenever his body is low on the drug.
The more he indulges on the sedative
to calm his racing mind, the more
its comfort zone seems to be desired.

Disoriented in the rigours of his vice,
he strays in the abyss of drug addiction:
a dark, weary place where priority disorder 
is dictated by events outside of his control.

It is this corrupted impulse control that
causes his sick obsession with the narcotic,
rendering him unfit to articulate rational
thoughts: a chronic brain disorder.

In this harmful shift away from reality,  
utmost in his mind is the insidious drug:
over and above his job, his goals, family,
love, friends, hobbies and personal hygiene.

Oddly enough the foremost essentials of life
like water, food, and sleep are also not spared.
He could be ill and he won't care.
No other thoughts can cohabit in his world.

Emotionally invested in his fantasy world,
the toxic substance has kindled in him
an inner turmoil — setting off an overriding
feeling of emptiness that aches in his heart.

The habit much harder to lose than it was
to find: an ongoing effort to wean himself off
the drug is being crushed by a dysphoric mood
and a sickly feeling that intensify in severity.

These horrifying withdrawal symptoms
are a result of the sedative's induced
alterations in the biochemistry of his
brain's system of reward and punishment.

Rather than a mild, blissful flow of the brain's
happy hormones, as is experienced while
one is indulging in a tasty food, on receiving
a great news, or while engaged in any other

kinds of novelty that fill us with a delicious
pleasure, the opioid whose chemical structure
is similar to that of the natural chemical
messengers of the brain, Happy Hormones,

by mimicking these primary drivers of the
brain's reward system the psychoactive 
drug sends a false signal of euphoria to
the complex *****, triggering an instant

and fast secretion of an abnormally large
amount of the 'feel-good hormones', that
begin to surge along its pleasure pathways
overwhelming the reward centre of the brain.

It is this huge outpouring of happy hormones
in the region that elicites in him a sudden
burst of energy, a pleasant state of mild
drowsiness, mental alertness, relaxation, ...

This already intense, euphoric effect of the
opioid is further amplified by the drug's
blocking of the pain partways of the reward
system, thus dulling his emotions and worries

by eliminating any feeling of sorrow, regret,
guilt, fear, or loneliness. Upon intake of the
mood-altering drug, he would feel warm when
cold, calm when angry, bright when grumpy,

filled when hungry and happy when irritable,
with almost a total refrain from the tendency to
view anything in a negative manner. This dramatic
result makes every normal thing look better

and brings forth a deep sense of satisfaction,
as though all his needs have been met.
However, this almost perfectly desirable 
body and mind experience is an artificial

feeling that only lasts a few hours at most.
When the drug's effects wear off, because
the brain, which has come to rely on the steady
supply of happy hormones, cannot adjust

all at once, it gets stuck in overdrive which
results in the withdrawal symptoms. It is so
because his brain, whose system of reward
and punishment has been tampered with,

seeks to counteract and accomodate for
the sweet thrills of the drug's euphoric high,
by secreting much less happy hormones while
the foodgate of pain hormones is thrown open.

Just like a huge surge of happy hormones
elicits unnatural levels of euphorical pleasure,
a spike in flow of pain hormones produce
in him the torturous withdrawal symptoms.

These unwanted side-effects whose rise and
fall are subject to drug levels in the system,
is the debt he has to pay for the supreme
bliss that is relished during his opioid highs.

It is all about his brain seeking to maintain
Homeostasis: a normal, healthy body function.
Once he's able to amerce with penance due,
he'll feel good again with no need for the drug.

Another flip side of the illicit habit is that over
time, the regular surge in happy hormones
disrupts the resilience of the reward region
of the brain, causing physical changes that

have drastically reduced his brain's ability
to produce the 'pleasure juices', or respond
to any stimulus other than the one being
triggered by the psychoactive substance.

This is clearly seen in his lost of interest in
activities that he once enjoyed, since his brain
suffers from lack of happy hormones which
influence one's capacity to be in a good mood.

Because the narcotic has also disrupted
activities in the control region of the brain,
his whole thought pattern, perspective and
behaviour, all radically change along with it.

It is this reprogramming of his brain that has
altered the interior reality of his mind, in ways
that result in him going into 'survival mode'
in the absence of the drug during a withdrawal.

While in this irritable, aggressive and erratic
state, he would forego anything and everything
to obtain the narcotic because he's thinking
of his drug use the same way an individual 

who is parched with thirst thinks of water.
This desperation in seeking out the drug as
a vital lifeline is due to his compromised brain
'thinking' it needs it as a matter of survival.

A habit he had maintained at the outset
because it made him feel extremely good
has tuned against him, quite often, coercing
him to use for the avoidance of pain.

The sedative as dear and painful to him
as an imbecilic child is to its mother,  
he continues on the foreboding route 
for which he has no power of deviation.

Despairing in the clutches of addiction,
the drugs traumatize him, they infuse
toxins into his spine, and he wouldn't
know whether he's coming or going.

He's kept on saying to himself, 'I'm going
to quit for good after using one last time.'
But that remains to be seen as the drug
goes on dulling his inner light day by day.

In a downward spiral that stuns those 
acquainted with him, he loses his job,
his car is repoed, and he's evicted from
a nice home that had been stripped bare.

Drowning in unpaid bills and desperately
in debt, having blown an entire life-savings
on the drug, the loss of everything and a few
remaining friends leaves him fatally devastated.

The dangerous drug has evoked a negative
ripple that is felt throughout all that he's
part of. An awful realization that settles in
with cold clarity, eliciting a lurch of dismay

over his dire ignorance about the drug
which has led to the ugly entrapment.
In deep, sorrowful thoughts consumed
with self-loathing he puts a curse upon

the day he first laid eyes on the hard drug.
With the best resolve he's able to muster,
driven by exasperation to kick the habit,
he strives to make his will like stone —

a facade that is soon razed by his urgent need
for the ****** to stave off withdrawal. With a
burden of guilt and shame that can't be faced,
he retreats into the haze of his own misery.

With more problems and stresses than ever,
he plunges from troubled life to no life —
completely losing touch with reality as the
disorder assumes a more dangerous form.

His fixation on the ****** has taken a turn for
the worst; besides his strong cravings for it
to ward off withdrawal as well as to experience
its euphoric high again, it has become more

crucial than ever for him to keep his emotions
constantly desensitised to life, by numbing
the agony of living to ease the passage of
day with purchased relief from the sedative.

Locked in this highly destructive pattern
of drug use, he would stop at nothing to
feed the habit: he would cheat, steal,
lie or betray no matter who to get his 'fix'.

Like the spreading of cancer in the body,  
his affliction has metastasized way 
beyond him, chipping away at the sense
of wellbeing of everyone around him.

As frequent and ready targets for theft
his family have to always watch out for him,
in a resentful relations in which they never
could feel at easy with him around the house.

Wallets, jewellery, gadgets, or any other
easy to carry household valuables, that are
not safely locked away, will go missing.
For days at a time he, too, will vanish.

He'd eventually return like the 'prodigal son'.
Always, he's found the door open after
prolonged periods of avoiding home, even
on occasions when he'd been kicked out.

In the many months gone since losing his
source of livelihood, he's been pushed
into a number of rehabilitation facilities,
but as yet has failed to clean up his act.

He's also been in and out of rehab thrice
following hospital discharges for drug
overdose. On the last occasion, he was
found passed out in the family's bathtub.

Timely arrival of the paramedics had saved
his life. Notwithstanding, a nagging urge
to 'use' continues to feed and reinforce
the habit after each discharge from rehab.

It's been most upsetting to the parents
who have had to watch him visibly change
before their eyes: from a good, healthy
son, who had always had his act together,

to as it is, a thin, patchy-skinned loner with
a baffled demeanour — who buries his head
in low self-esteem, to conceal the often
dilated and glassy pupils from mutual gaze.

Nothing points more to the helplessness 
of the family's plight than having to finally
admit to their little or no influence over
the ravages of the stigmatized disorder.

A harrowing experience for a household
whose life-savings, along with compassion
for him, have completely been exhausted
with no more tears remaining to shed.

The hurting family at the end of its tether
confronts him with an ultimatum:
to get his life in order or face the music.
Coldly, they all watch him leave home.

His descent into the final stages of rock-
bottom has been swift. He starts by crashing
on fellow addicts' couches and floors,
but soon his welcome quickly wears out.

Now among the ranks of the homeless the
hobo would wake up feeling sick, and his day
would consist of shoplifting, petty thefts,
begging, and struggling to find others ways

to obtain money in order to feed the habit.
At nights, even on stormy ones, the rough
sleeper would crash wherever there's shelter,
never worrying about waking up the next day.

A hellish existence on the street that has
provoked a string of run-ins with the law. 
Nabbed stealing on ill-fated occasions,
he's manhandled in a most indecent way.

Tired, hungry and sick, the erstwhile ray of
hope, who once had a strong sense of self,
is currently a nervous wreck who envisages
life through the lens of opioid stupor.

Much beyond his ability to ask for help, 
his hurting family proceed to rescue him.
Under the humbling load of drug addiction
he staggers into another rehab facility.

But the often slippery climb to recovery
is never easy. It's yet another chance for him
to submit to a slow and delicate therapy on
his brain — whose structure and functions 

are badly impacted by years-long use of
the drug. The healing process is a labour
of commitment and discipline, coupled with
patience to allow the brain to adapt back

toward normalcy by gradually regenerating
and rebalancing itself. In a gruelling task,
he's expected to learn to care for a body that
now must struggle to work in a different way.

Desiring to put their lives back together many
druggies have been able to crawl their way out
of the sinister shadow — a big chunk of them
through the guiding light of structured help.

Amongst them were 'walking corpses' whom
possessed by their 'enough is enough', are
enabled to find the inner fire vitally needed
to rekindle the cold embers of self-image.

There's the fella cast adrift feeling wholly
disconnected from self and the world;
he's mourning the loss of a vital lifeline
that has always helped him cope with life.

He had been through it several times before,
the fatigue, stomach cramps, aches, itchy skin, ...
But, he's in the early stages of withdrawal when
cravings for the narcotic are at their worst.

This initial withdrawal agony is the biggest
hurdle any addict has to overcome in the often
stop-start journey to recovery. If he could
somehow find the courage to suffer through it,

the fierce and ceaseless cravings for the drug
would be considerably reduced, making
them easier for him to deal with. Eventually,
they will dissipate the longer he stays sober.

He's being offered a way out of his captivity,
but he's unable to embrace the opportunity
with open arms because the addiction,
which convinces him the only option is to

indulge on the narcotic, is blocking him from
seeing the available escape route. It has shut
off his ability to get up on the inside to face
the seeming overwhelming barriers to sobriety.

Like one in the grip of Stockholm Syndrome,
he has developed a type of trauma bonding
with the treacherous drug: the more it enslaves
him, the more his irrational affection for it.

With his consciousness constantly revolving
around the insidious substance, he just
can't imagine a chronic user like him
being sober and happy again without it.

That being the case, he fails to see any point
in struggling to remain sober — when in such
times he's beset by an awful illness attended
by a serious depression that is no help.

Regardless of the wreckage of his past,
everything that is dear to him plus the very
essence of life on the line, he's left convinced
that giving up the destructive habit would

mean endless suffering and feeling deprived
for the rest of his already sad existence.
More than any other reasons, he just
won't quit because he's powerless to resist.

In default of any dreams of ever recouping
losses that are manifestly out of reach,
the drug with a firm grip on him serves 
as a buffer to keep his ugly reality at bay.

All that he wants is to return to the 'loving
arms' of the opioid, very much aware that
the feeling of the drug's high now that he's
in pain can be one of the best things ever.

But even so, as tempting as the desire to jump
the healing process may be, he's bitterly
mindful of the horrors of street life that
loom upon him with such frightening aspect.

Savagely trapped with no good choices he
slips into a real fear of relapse. In anguish
withdrawal and cravings plague him daily,
and they won't allow him a moment's peace.

Utterly incapable of rising from the ashes 
to hold it all together—no hope—
nothing to hope for—everything out 
of focus—mind spiraling out of control...

In a fit of extreme anxiety the now rampaging
urge to 'use' prods him, closer and closer, to
the brink of a nervous breakdown; and suddenly,
his need for a 'hit' becomes most vital as.

Sweating profusely and trembling all over
with fear clutching a pilfered smartphone,
forgetful of future suffering, the rehab
jumper hurries along the forbidden path.

All alone with the merciless companion: 
nowhere to go and no one to turn to. 
Wretchedly wretched in additive agony
the ****** fades away into nothingness.








AUTHOR'S NOTE


The Abyss Of Drug Addiction is written in 112 non-rhyming quatrains.

The rendition is a poignant story depicting the sad existence of many drug users. The verse uncovers and illuminates, step by step, the different stages of drug addiction and the mental processes of the unable to function drug users.

The paramount aim of the work is to shed some light on the sinister shadow of drug addiction: to unveil to all and sundry, especially teenagers and the youths, the hazards of drug abuse and the vicious downward spiral that can be caused by it. 

Just as the euphoric experience of all kinds of hard drugs differ significantly, so are their withdrawal symptoms. Despite their seeming surface unrelatedness, whichever hard drug it may be, the creation of an illegal and dangerous dependency in users is a common denominator.

[The Rush is described as a feeling very much like a heightened and prolonged ****** ******. A great relieve of tension. It is mostly felt when ****** or any of it's derivatives opioids/opiates is administered intravenously].

In quite a disturbing hyperbole, a ****** addict described the drug's EUPHORIC RUSH as follows:
"Take the best (******) ****** you've ever had, multipy it a billion and you're still no where near it... "

They Seem ...
STRANGE ... To Me ...
Don't They ... To You ... ?!?

The Things That People ....
Sometimes .... Do .... ?

Don't Worry Folks ...
I'll ... Give You PROOF ...
That People ... Make ...
Some ... FUNNY Moves ... ?!?

How About ... THIS ... ?
To ... Start Things Off ...

OUTRAGE ... Over .... !!!!!!!!!
Coc' Head " .... MOSS ...

" APOLOGIES " .....
And ... Sponsorship GONE ... !!!!!

Just ... LOCK HER UP ... !!!
Hasn't She ... Done WRONG ... ?!?

Well ...
FRIEND of Hers' ...
"WITHIN" ... The BIZ' ...
Are Showing Support ...
For ... " POOR Katie " ... !!!!!!

People Like ........

Ahhh Yes ... ROBBIE ... ??!??

"Leave her alone !!!" ...

Is ... Robbies' PLEA ... ?

Could There Be ... ?
Some More ... " Druggies " ...
Getting ... LOADS ... !!! ...
of ... CASH MONEY ... ???

While Others ...
Live In ... " Poverty " ... !!!?!!!

Take Your Time .........................
And ... Think It Through ..........................

While I ... Give You ...
Some More Proof ...
That People Make ...

The ...
STRANGEST Moves ... ?!?

Why Do Girls ... ?
Act So ........ Aloof .......... ?!?

And ... Make Men Feel ....
That ... They Aren't Cool ...

But Get ...  UPSET ...
When Men ... REJECT ...

The Chance To ... Talk ...
And ......................................... IGNORE Them ... !?!

Maybe Because ......................

They're Getting ... WET ...
And KNOW They Want Them ...
..... In Their Bed ..... !!!!!

Girls Like THIS ...
Just ... Get Me VEX ... !!!

They ... Act As Though ...
What's In Their Head ...
Should Make A Man ...
Kneel Down And ... BEG ...

Just To .... Spend ....
Some Time With Them ... !!!?!!!

That's Why I Wrote A Piece ...
Called ... " *** and Texts " ...

Cos' ... Texting Now ...
Leaves Me ... " PERPLEXED " ... ?

I've ... Said It Before ...
And Will ... Say It AGAIN ... !!!

That's NO WAY ...
To ... Communicate ... !!!!!

But Nowadays ....
It's Used In Ways ...

That ...
May Make STRAIGHT MEN ...
Become ... GAY ... !!!!!!!!!!!

That's Why I Like ...
To KEEP Girls' Texts ...
And Use Their Words ...
To ... Get Them VEX ... !!!

"Remember your text ?
Should I show you babe ?"

"NO cos', that's not what I meant,
I merely meant, can't we be friends."

"Ahhh friendship right
but. in your text,
the word, "Friendship",
was not transcribed ???"

"Well, you were supposed to RECOGNISE !"

"RECOGNISE What ?
Oh, read what you meant,
between the lines ?"

"NO, my text was just a text
let's move on, cos' now i'm Vex !"

SEE ... What I Mean !!!

Some Girls ARE STRANGE ... ?!?
And Sometimes ... " ACT " ...
Like They're ... " DERANGED " ... !?!

It Seems ... Some Girls ...
DON'T Use Their Brains ... !!!!!

That's Why These Days ...
I Now ... REFRAIN ...
From ... Getting Into ...
Womens' Games ... !!!

How About THIS ... ?

My Friends And I ...
Were ... Just In FITS ... !!!!!

You Get ... "INTIMATE" ...
With A ... PRETTY Girl ...

But See That She's ...
In ... " HER OWN WORLD "... !!!

She Says ...

"Let's keep a low profile !"

So ...
You Say ... " Cool " ...

But Here's The ... " Move " ...

In PUBLIC ... She Now ...
.... " IGNORES You " ....

You ... " Do Your Do " ...

But Then ... When You ...
Start ... " Making Moves " ...
With ... OTHER People ...
In The ... Room ....

Here It Comes ... !!!!!

You KNOW The Move ... !!!

She ... Makes A SCENE ...
In Front Your Crew ...
And STORMS Outside ... !!!!!

But ... When We Leave ...
She's ... Waiting There ...

Wearing ... YES ...
A ... CHEEKY Smile ...

You ... Play It Out ...

"What was that about ?" ...

But Then She Starts ...
To ... RUN HER MOUTH ... !!!!!

That's ...
When You Say ...

"Okay, I'm out !" ...

What Does She Do ... ?

Stand There And ... " POUT " ... !?!

Fellas ... Know The Coup ...
.... " NO DOUBT " ... !!!!!!

It's ...
NOT JUST GIRLS ...

But ... Fellas Too ...
Who ... Sometimes Make ...
These ... STUPID Moves ... !!!!!!!!!

Which ...

Brings Me Back ...
To The ... " Question " ...

........ " Phew " ........ !!!!!!!

The Things That People
Sometimes ... DO .... ???

" Seem Strange To Me ...
Don't They To ... YOU ? "

This is a thought without a face,
A message to our human race,
A verse of comfort and good hope,
Despite all the terrorist folk,
In spite of druggies and their dope,
The world is not coming to an end,
Onwards one humanity shall wend,
A voice of hope for us, do you ken,
Alone, but never lonely in the world,
To the humans, from an ******* girl,
It may be the end of an era,
But grace may be coming nearer,
The world is not coming to an end,
Onwards, one humanity does wend......






















































­
































This is a thought without a face,
A message to our human race,
A verse of comfort and good hope,
Despite all the terrorist folk,
In spite of druggies and their dope,
The world is not coming to an end,
Onwards one humanity shall wend,
A voice of hope for us, do you ken,
Alone, but never lonely in the world,
To the humans, from an ******* girl,
It may be the end of an era,
But grace may be coming nearer,
The world is not coming an end,
Onwards, one humanity shall wend......

The reason there aren't so many vampyres
around these days is they don't like TV hype
and the intrusions of TV news crews. It transpires
that vampyres prefer late hours and like low light levels
because they're egregarious and don't like to be seen inebrious
in the middle of their heinous, intravenous revels.
Also, unfavorable reviews about transfusions
and the confusion caused by AIDS, at this juncture,
has definitely reduced the appeal of being seduced
by some crazed and gurgling Transylvanian
bloodsucker lusting to puncture the jugular,
or any other available vein again,
especially when you don't know if they've disinfected their fangs
or only licked them after draining their last victim.

After all, vampyres were brought up in castles
when there weren't antiseptics for gargles
and they haven't been taught prophylactic criteria
against such apocalyptic viral bacteria.
And if you've ever seen vampyres with condoms
on their teeth, you'll know what I mean.  
It's a scream. Everyone finds them hilarious. It'd be easier
to die laughing than to go down with anemia.
Also, like everyone else, vampyres hate ridicule.
No-one likes being seen as the fool.
  
And the other reason vampyres are scarce now
is that there are so many genuine muggers, hoods, crims,
druggies, financial leeches, homicidal maniacs,
psychopathic liars and genocidal tendencies to conjure up real fears
out there, that there's not much room left for quaint old-fashioned vampyres, poor dears.  

But do you know something? Even though they were naughty,
I miss their occasional ****. I know it was gory,
but those kisses, oh boy. We got into the femoral artery inside the thigh. It was *****. But when AIDs came along,
that was it.  Definitely bye-bye. Nobody wanted to die.  
These are the facts.  
So these vampyres were starving and they reverted to bats.  
Did a midnight flit,
and that's the end of my story.

When I was young
I learned how to dive into my emotions
I learned how to wrap myself
in my regret and fill myself
with relics of isolation,
I learned that my tears
were to be compared to the bottom of the ocean
for both the saltiness
and the amount of them.
I learned how to cheat my way
into straight A's
because suddenly I wasn't at the top of the class
I was diving to the bottom,
with the druggies and the criminals.
I learned how to move my fingers
along the fret board of another man's "love"
and how to make him sing louder than a microphone
would ever allow for
I learned to dive into what most would consider immorality.
I learned to inhale whatever I could,
tobacco, ***, and whatever lingered in the oxygen in between
and I learned to dive through the labyrinth of smoke
that it would produce.
I learned to steal for what I needed
because I didn't have the money to eat lunch
or for new clothes
I learned to dive into the world that I'd scoffed at
a year ago
the world of the beggars and the choosers
the stealers and the 'losers'
called out by self-proclaimed winners.
I learned to trace raindrops on a window
and recite my dreams in the form of broken hearts
and song lyrics
I learned to dive into myself.

You put your face up right next to mine
and scream out a list of rights I don't have:
the right to make tea in the morning
the right to stay up past 9 pm
to carry mouthwash with me
to use my own soap
to hang my coat in my closet
to spend more than eight hours away from home each day
to change plans when away from you without telling you
(no matter how small the change)
to open my windows or back door without permission
to open the back gate at all
to speak when you are not present

I want to write a ******* autobiography someday
and have more than a chapter
and that chapter ain't even here:
If I sit and think about my life,
I have no real memories with you.
The memories that count are the ones spent away from you

Playing on the playground
of the apartments by the mill with two friends
(both of which are now ******* druggies)
or sitting in the back of his aunt's station wagon
when one of em backs into the mailboxes
(at the age of six)

Building forts in the woods at four corners.
Bonfires, frog catching and golf at Anne's.
Wandering trails while camping with them.

Running through the woods with ubie
building forts from old tires, grass clippings and sticks
and playing endless games of fetch with her.
Some days we'd walk the creek back to the fern grove
some days we'd skip rocks by the "waterfall"
and some days we'd slip under the barbed wire to visit the neighbors.

The old **** lab in Carlsborg
which we labeled as "the barn" since it was one-
had plenty of small passageways that we'd play  hide and seek in.
But some days we'd get bored
so we'd go past the church to the rock quarry and climb the hills
or we'd walk the trail as far as we were willing to go
or climb over the abandoned canopy into the neighboring field
and walk over to visit the horses and goats.

Port Angeles was long walks for me,
trails dark and ominous that always led to the park
or roads that always continued on forever,
until I found that one house that I used as an anchor.
Ryland was born there
So was me, not I, but me, the beginning of ME

Then there was Taylor cutoff-
A mile back in the woods
by a junkyard
and a quarter mile from the Dungeness.
I would walk the river most days,
past the farms near the hatchery,
where the power lines always crackled
and the abandoned barns called my name.
some days I'd take the bus to Sequim, others to PA.

Dabob was a trailer that we packed full of memories-
Pulling hoses up long hills to water small trees.
loading up the truck with wood chips for the yard.
rolling boulders into trees with the tractor.
Taking Ryland to the ER for croup.
And fitting three people into a five by ten room to sleep.
not to mention:
bonfires, fireworks, bobcats, mountain lions, 3 cults and *** farmers

This is the ****** though, Edmonds-
city life, and I'm ******* loving it.
I want to write myself a life, father
and I know where to do it
and how
and it ain't here under your oppression.

Three months and the story changes

She was a carefree soul
in an uptight world
Just trying to fit in.
Looking for love
in all the right places
that's how her story begins

Her mama didn't want her,
Her daddy didn't know her,
so she ran away
Looking for love
in all the wrong places
as she does to this day

Men her daddy's age
Drug are all the rage
Disco *****, Stripper Poles,
Needles and Sin

Married at 18
seemed like the right thing
drugs, an abortion, then a baby girl.
Why she had me
I'll never know
I didn't fit into her world

She found love
in the form of a son
for a time it was enough
A walk with God
She claimed she was on
But satan called her bluff.

Many men, any age
Drugs are still all the rage.
Barstools, Stripper poles
Needles and sin

She left us
at an early age,
Teenage girl and boys times 2
Searching for happiness
in all the wrong places
is watch she HAD to do.

Being a mother
To my little brothers
We got through life ok.
Hoping and dreaming
wishing and praying
Our mother would find her way.

All these men, every age,
Ice is now all the rage
Sleepless nights, alcoholic life,
Needles and Sin

On the streets
is where she lives
druggies are her friends.
Countless ways
to try to save her
But there is no end.

Is this the life
she dreamt of having
All that time ago?
A beautiful daughter, two talented sons
and grandkids she'll never know.

Any man, whatever age
Homelessness all the rage.
Self deception, mind corruption
Needles and sin.

Every now and then,
When I'm sitting alone in my
Pajamas, with a cup of hot
Chai tea and a dash of honey
In the morning
I sit against the wall
I breathe in and out
Once, twice, a few more times

And then I let down the
Gate in my mind
And my thoughts
Prance in the field of
Morbid dreams

I imagine my death
And I wonder just who
Would bother to show
And I wonder if
That boy, yeah, that one,
The one I loved for
Five years,
Would anyone even
Tell him?
Or would he be too busy
Shooting up, getting drunk,
Too busy trying to attempt
Inadvertent suicide?

I picture my mother
In her pressed black pants
And her modestly sequined
Funeral blouse that I've only
Seen three times or so
She'd rip the glasses off of her
Head and scream at my father
Why was she such a *****?
Didn't she know I loved her?

Yeah, Ma, I knew
I knew you loved me when
You grounded me for an A-
I knew you loved me when
You glared at the food on my
Plate,
After I hadn't eaten in a week
And huffed,
You're going to eat that?
Do you want to be an elephant
Or something?

I knew when you read my
Diary in seventh grade
And yelled about all of the
Deep secrets I wrote to paper
I knew when you told me
How disappointed you were
When you swore you'd never
Ever
Be proud of me

Then my mind wanders over
To my father
The big teddy bear
Graying scalp, icy eyes
His suit from 1977
That always made me laugh
And I let myself wonder
If he would even
Bother to cry

I skim across my friends
Druggies
Thieves
Liars
Cheaters
They'd miss me, wouldn't they?

Last, I ponder over
Who would show up
That I wouldn't even want
To be there
The people I've crossed
And thrown away
The ones I loved
And wrote off

I'm sure there would
Be plenty of those
Spewing lies about
How I used to be

And it all swirls together
Down Tornado Alley
My ex's lack of interest
My mother's bleeding heart
My father's vacant stare
My friends' misplaced grief
My enemies' back stabbing falsehoods

And I wonder if any
Of these people
Would honestly be able to say
That they knew me at all...



Meanwhile, the Christmas music
My mother loves to blast
Flows down the hallway and
Under my door

*Fa la la la la
La la la la...

HANGING WITH THE GALLO(W) BROS.

Coked out
Strung out
Flipped out
Had my share of friends
Blow their brains out

But still I went back out
And hung out with the Gallo brothers
And the drunks and the druggies and the homeless and the insane
Downtown at two in the morning.

Little did I know,
The Gallo Brothers were leading me to the gallows
Dead woman walking
Hanging out with them,
I was killing myself slowly
Too cowardly to flat out pull the trigger and get it done with,
I just squeezed it a bit
With two, three, four visits a day
From the dynamic dastardly duo.

Sometimes we hung out at Sutter Home
I remember the plastic thunk of bottles
In my purse on the way there.
The glass-laden Gallo Brothers sometimes made a bit too much noise
When stealth was called for,
So no one else would catch on to what I was doing.
So no one would catch onto the feelings I tried burying,
The demons I tried to drown,
Who were squeezing the life out of me
Feeling horrible, unworthy
Always going back on my misery.

Tremors, delirious
Delirium tremens
So shaking I can’t even double-fist
A single can of soda
I reached for the only help I’ll accept
I grabbed on tight to their hands
Even though my body turned it down
Rejecting, ejecting
Spewing, spitting their help
Back in their faces

“I wish I knew how to quit you”
My body told them

But the Brothers were a violent lot
Beating me into submission
When my mind was under their influence
Sometimes I’d do the craziest ****
For friends who didn’t know better,
Didn’t have my best interests at heart
Were -bent on my personal destruction.
Talk about peer pressure!
Doing, saying things I normally wouldn’t!
They made me go against the grain of everything decent and good about me.

Some friends just aren’t worth having
I learned that lesson the hard way
Cutting ties with the Gallo Brothers...
The hardest thing I ever did!
But... the only way to keep Dead Woman Walking
From becoming Dead Woman Hanging around
at the morgue instead of the Gallo Brothers’ house.

friendships are important to me
it's a window of endless possibilities
yet  i am different
i do not agree  with some activities ,
i lived around  druggies
and around the gay society
i am straight
I don't need these activities  to rule my life
it shouldn't
i am learning  we all are different
even then it shouldn't hinder who we are as a person
you say my soul has darkened because i disagree
no  it hasnt  i promise you that
everyone wants respect yes, but when i said no, or hey back off i am straight
i know no other way to say thats not my game.
then i become the hated or dubbed the hater so then i play the part
friendships are important to me
it's a window of endless possibilities
yet  i am different
i do not agree  with some activities ,
i lived around  druggies
and around the gay society
i am straight
I don't need these activities  to rule my life
it shouldn't
so why is it such  a big deal
for you to push and i am to stay quiet
why ..
i find myself the minority now
because i disagree with the lifestyles
the activities were hated long before and now they are the norm
why
my soul never changed   i just disagree with some activities
like you disagree with my  cigarettes and coffee
why



By alan spivey 2/5/2014

My entire life I've had an interest in substances,
Psychedelics mainly.. and all it encompasses,
The idea of letting loose from this world,
and witnessing something truly absurd,
but my opinions on substances aren't always preferred.

I have always been a man of science,
A sceptic in every sense of the bias,
but there's a substances in the world called DMT.
Dimethyltryptamine to the science community,
It appears in every tested plant, mammal and tree,
and It's effects are a total MYSTERY,
I could spend hours trying to explain what it's like,
Like taking a tour of the another universe on the back of a bike,
Been guided through an uncomprehendable place,
With a character and culture of what seems like another race,
The standard laws of physics don't apply,
A tingling sensation, and off you go,
Leaving your ego to die.
coming out of it you laugh,
you cry,
totally lost for words,
again, “What's it like?” people ask,
but explaining it is an impossible task...

“Druggies” they say,
Tarring me with their cliché.
Judging me on this factor exclusively,
Foolishly, thinking that's what matters,
An image of a man with his life in tatters,
but delve a little deeper and hopefully that illusion shatters.

I'm just a stereotypical geek,
I love sci­fi, fantasy and Jonathan Creek,
Spend my week days programming and drinking tea,
moaning at how ******* footballers treat the referee,
or wondering if I should have gone back for my masters degree,

How can you have an opinion on something, you've never done?
A world in which you've never come,
and what initially seems scary,
can be enlightening or fun,
but it's natural to be scared of what could become.

This isn't me saying, I think everyone should take drugs,
They're DEFINITELY not for everyone.
But do you think you should be allowed to judge?
How I spend my own time, with my own body?

There's a common phrase “Drugs are bad”,
As if an inanimate object has a moral compass,
and can know the difference between unlawfulness and justice,
Chemicals have no objective opinion,
No way to tell their right or reason.

Go to the pharmacy, “Paracetamol please”
no one ever questions this need,
People portray this drug as accepted,
while others are shunned and rejected,
this judgement isn't made with logic,
and the papers will slander with no justification,
“YOUNG GIRL LOOSES LIFE!” the headlines shout,
those words in your face like a covonia clout,
no one cares about the coroner report,
All they see is a picture on the front page,
Of a poor girls mum distraught,

These are portrayed as the rule as opposed to the exception,
a perfect example of media deception,
then again we all know it's been that way since it's inception.

We all know drugs can have negative effects on lives,
I've experienced first hand the darker sides,
such as my friend Dave who tragically died,
an amazing person I'll never again be alongside.

****** abuse can be a ******* awful thing,
a cardinal sin,
it can change people....
make them a different person in the same skin

With no idea what it contains,
It is injected directly into their veins,
*** and Hepatitis C,
Collapsed Veins and crutches plain to see,
That's not how anyone should have to be.

But is it the substances which are to blame?
Is it helped by the way society, publicly shame,
People who have had lives I couldn't even BEGIN to explain.
Needing something to take away the pain.
but ending up with zero gain
and although it's not always the same
People often don't like what they became.

The aim of this poem isn't to force my view,
It's to hopefully make you see I'm not much different from you,
and to not shun what you don't understand, but listen with open ears, and potentially lend a hand.

all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.

milk the silence.

fingertips trace the
splintered podium.

clear my throat,
once,
twice.

"We shoulduh' seen this coming."

great opener.

"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.

Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.

Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.

Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,

and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.

We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.

We all got divorced.

We all got into politics.

Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.

Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.

We shoulduh' seen this coming.

But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.

The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.

Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."

all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.

milk the silence.

i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.

they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.

"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.

Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.

Get stoked for the funeral pyre."

all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.

no one even got a chance to applaud.

that needs or wants  to join and experience the "discipline"?.
Either taking or  giving--we are two way.
All formed from the Isness of the Universe.
male or female,preferably under the age of death of body?
Youthful in appearance.
No fatties or druggies.
Well mannered and trustworthy.
Frustrated for ******.
Reach it through Tantra.
Players of instruments.
(but NOT others styles and energies)
can you travel?
India or Amsterdam or Deia or Kathmandu?.
No wage slaves.
No poets.
No inhibitions.
No taboos.
No deranged or psychotics.
Preferably practising Raja students.
No cost.
Except total dissolution of Mind and Conditioned Identity.

All I’m beginning to feel is pain. My mind is buzzing and throbbing because I’ve shoved it out of sight. My chest aches from a diet of fried foods and breathing toxic conversation. My ears sting from biting criticisms my parents present of: homosexuals, the homeless, drug addicts, hippies, and myself. Ten days trapped, with no escape but my mind. I should have prepared better; brought armor and weapons, but nothing cuts through the opinions of the ignorant. Nothing can expose the lies they’ve fed themselves.

My mother loves “people watching” she says, but only from a safe distance. Far enough to see the grit, but not the despair.
My father is fickle, brooding and American. He can’t look foreigners in the eye and scoffs at language barriers.

Together they make assumptions: drug addict, idiot, fornicators, harlot, thief, terrorist, local, wealthy, foreign.  Maybe they’re right to assume the negative; maybe they’re right when they say all the homeless are drug addicts. I hope not, I maintain faith, faith in the beauty of life, in the inherent differences we all possess, not in a God they say, says no to: liars, and *****, and prostitutes, and druggies, and the tattooed, I run, from them and their prayers, and arrogance and conclusions.

Smite me, parents, your darlingdaughter.

I’ve been all of those.
I lie to you, hide my true self, to spare you.
I’ve smoked ***.
I’ve drank underage.
I’ve been a ****.
I’ve been called a *******.
I’ve loved the idea that love is real, whether you’re gay or straight.

You **** my faith, force in your ideals and chain me to a cross you’ve built yourselves of hypocrisy, of hate, of misunderstanding, of fear, of criticism. I struggle to get free. Defend my principles, play “devil’s advocate,” when you know as well as I, I’m not playing. I’ll prove it, be more than you’ll allow, do more than you want.

I’ll find more love than your Christianity-tainted mind can fathom.
I’ll explore the depths of the mind you’ll never know.
I’ll remember the love you made me forget.
I’ll make love to men without a ring on our fingers, and feel no remorse.
I’ll tattoo my body, to show the world the beauty of my mind.
I’ll buy a Koran because I see its beauty.
I’ll attempt to understand others.
I’ll give to the homeless, even if they’re drug addicts.
I’ll love everyone that’s real, because I can. Because it’s more important than God or war or assumptions or generalizations, or patriotism.

You think I’m rebelling?
No. no. no. I’m just living.

I'm friends with the kids who smoke cigarettes
Instead of marijuana
The ones who drink vodak
instead of margaritas
The kids who wear all black
And pick pocket lighters
The ones who find home under bridges
And Mark them with graffiti
I'm friends with the kids who go to jail for joy riding thier parents Jeep
And not for getting into fights
We don't sleep at night
But instead we ride
Midnight fries at McDonald's
And 3am confessions
I'm friends with the weirdos
The druggies
The kids who listen to halsey
Before we listen to fetty
The kids who go to prom
Just to sneak out the back
And you may hate us
But we don't care
Because I'm friends with the people who are free
I'm friends with people who are happy

You steal my drugs
Take my money
You look at me and think
"What's wrong, honey?"
Go behind my back
Feed me ******* lies
I can never confront you
So I let it out and cry
You try to make me happy
In doing what you please
But don't you ever notice,
I'm everything but at ease
Your mad at me when I'm "not happy"
But that's because im "being ******"
You've tried to mend these broken strings
But all you've done is break my wings
You ******* druggies
I can't take it anymore
I'm ready to leave
Break open a new door
One with a life of trust and respect
Where my life won't be
Such a wreck
It's my fault for enabling you
But you tugged at my heart strings
Guilt tripped me two for two
And here I am back at the start
Trying to build back up
What keeps falling apart
There's only so many times
I'll keep going around
Until Ive done my time
And I'm ready to bound

Him,
The sedutive, experienced guy,
The poison,
                 the drug per say,

You--
The kind, loving guy.
With no experience.
                                 Antidote

I took the drug.
          I got hooked.

Can't
      See
          Through
                    
         To
               Grasp
                            The
                                 Antidote

Its just,
   Past,
       My reach.

But I don't want it anymore.....

It is like being torn apart.

But think about it,

In the end,
I didn't try to fight off
           the other "druggies" - women-
                                             Wanting their "fix",

          I took the

                                  **Antidote

Emptied bottles abandoned in a makeshift nest of expended needles
Wallpaper tearing, personified with mind-existent faces
Faces crying out, druggies are feeble
Thought *** was not dangerous, buds tweaked with laces.

Brave men and women all matching in green
Prepared for war, physically ready to fight
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, you'll never know what they've seen
Comrades dying, fearful crying, killing humans alike.

Forced to mature, parents not even related
A false family filling an insatiable pit of sadness
Baa baa, black sheep. Wool tainted.
Fake relatives, real emotion and belief. God Bless.

Destiny is cruel, less than two dollars of payment
Food scarce, enforcers feirce, assembly line continuous
Fingers bleeding and bruised? Keep working. Mentally spent.
Whips on the back, the pain gratuitous.

Nice family, good car, great job, years ago
Remnants of the past, rewinding in the form of dreams
Begging for money, mainly ignored, not seen as human anymore
Sleeping on park benches, tears releasing in streams.

Two to five things go wrong and you feel the need to complain?
Yeah. Life must be tough.
Your romantic interest leaves you and you feel insane?
Problems childish when compared to others, don't you think it's enough?

little creature
little creature
little creature

You talk the talk, all sunken-eyed from a not-so-scant dilaudid habit
but you are a dilettante and can't straight walk the walk
compared to she and I, the comparable brunettes.

You go to the bathroom and snort drugs off your lap b/c    u     r     v   sick.

When your girlfriend goes to rehab, don't call me to *******.

You want to **** me because you like the idea of being loved
and you are two-years-too-late out of touch with being a scene queen,
draghino druggies into bathtubs and baking with Lil B.

You're slipping
and I know that, for sure,
because you tried to kiss *me

Slither slither
Come hither
From castle to castle
We fear and hustle

Every house a fortress
Lock the gates at day
Everyone wants your money
Responsible for the poor

Buy socks from a street vendor
At an extravagant price
Save money at the supermarket
Because really your budget is tight

Give cigarettes to the druggies
At every traffic light
Give what you have left over
To charity; rids you of guilt

But the oraters in the halls
Of politics say you are the reason
You are the cause
The poor MUST commit treason

There’s a corner of my basement
I can see it from the couch
It’s a doorway of light
Opening to a stairwell

A light is on near my bed
It’s small
A phone perhaps

I have headphones on
So It’s hard to sleep comfortably
I like to nestle my head into the crook of my arm

I stare at a worn down drop-ceiling
Those two lights are on either side of my vision
I keep waiting

I keep rolling into the cracks
I’ve had to adjust the cushions far too many times

A smile
A warmth
My eyes
I don’t want to swallow

The jar is closed
Pandora’s box of light opened while I streamed blues on Pandora
And I see the lights go static

They bend into each other in the dark
I wave my fingers in front of my face
I’ve probably killed a few brain cells here
Definitely.

Sorry Mom
I was bored and rubber cement is only 3.97

I’m drunk on a cleanse from oxygen
I’m sure my nostrils will thank me later

My brain could use an adhesive
Flexibility would bond loose ends
And repair the divisiveness

I have my hands in everything
And I can’t remember the last time I stepped in dog ****

But a hand in phylogeny is a backhand to Baptists
A hand in salvation is a slap in the face to the Darwinists I love everyday

I have a toast!
To the moment the rapture brings about our extinction my friends!

At least everyone thinks I’m stupid.
Right in the middle of the room is the right place to be
A bullseye for stone chuckers and monkey *******
A hand out for the druggies
And a jab at the churches who aren’t doing anything
A round of applause for cruel irony
And a finger turned up in a creative way to everyone who’s laughing at the episode

Vishnu would have a hay day
And I could use the extra hands.
Jesus’s are tied- I mean nailed up at the moment
But when miracles don’t happen anymore
Go read first Samuel, and you’ll see all this **** went down before

And there’s another cycle
History repeats itself
In through the nose and out through your mouth
Just keep a nostril over the jar
And don’t die

In a world of male vs. female
brain vs. brawn
good vs. evil
heaven vs. hell
skinny vs. fat
***** vs. player
pretty vs. ugly
popular vs. loner
How are you supposed to find yourself.
Society puts out so many labels and stereotypes
Demand you join one
(Heaven help you if you pic conflicting catagories)
And then judges you either way.

If you're a girl
You're too masculine if your strong
You're too Girly if you're weak
You're pretty if you have long hair
You're lesbian if you have short hair
You're a **** if you have revealing clothing
You're a nun if you cover up
And so on.

If you're a guy you're popular of you're strong
You're gay if you're weak
You're unattractive if you're skinny
You're perfect if you're ripped
You're a player if you get with more than one girl
You're pathetic if you haven't even kissed someone

In a world of double standards
You're expected to be badass
Popular
Weird
Emo
Reject
Wanna be
Cool
Druggies
Smokers
Saints
*****
*****
******
Nerd
****

How are you supposed to choose ?
Heaven forbid you're smart and ripped
Heaven forbid you're skinny and a ******
Heaven forbid you're popular and 'Emo''
Heaven forbid you're badass and nerdy


You're told to make your own choices and just be who you are
But then you are judged
Ridiculed
Put down
Bullied
Excludes
Rejected
Neglected
Offended
By being who you are.
To the point where you are being told to and forced to change so much that you lose who you originally were
You second guess every choice you've made since thy lead you to who you are today
And you always feel like you should be something wake to the point where you have no idea anymore how to even catagories yourself.

In a world of double standards
Judgment
And today's society
Finding who you are and making your own path and controlling your life is the biggest challenge of all.

such news can only be broken over coffee
bad burned coffee
leftovers switched from one *** to another
this ****** smoked filled cafe
home to drunks and low lifes
insominacs and druggies shaking
over coffee.

you tell me all about her
like somehow
that makes it better.
how she makes you feel
how lost you were
before.

i stir in sugar and cream
till the burned coffee taste
fades
i sip and nod
adding more sugar because
my hands need something to do.

i grin and joke
thank god no one was hurt
right?
god
what crap
straining between my
teeth, glued
in that chiseled smile
because
well
what else could i say?

you sigh
relieved
and all kinds of pleased with yourself
yes
at least we can be adults about this.

i excuse myself
and cry in the bathroom
and when i come back
we are out of sugar
and my coffee has gone cold.

“Yes, of course, I’ll do that for you.”

That’s how it started, that’s how it always starts. They wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I never gave them no as an answer, always yes, always how high, always please.

You know, I used to thank them for telling me what to do, that’s what they had me think I should be doing, thanking them for giving me something to do but hang around with druggies and alcoholics, thank them for making sure I stay on the right track.

I don’t remember when I started, but it felt good, it felt so good. The only thing about myself I knew was right, the only thing that looked right, felt right, how could it be wrong? I know people say it is…but it really isn’t, trust me.

Tire tracks, I think that’s what people call them anyway; I can’t remember the last time I really talked to someone else. I hid my wrists from them, they might tell me not to do it, and I’d have to thank them for taking away the last of myself.

They said it again, and I thanked them again. They’re right of course, they’re always right. There are those worthless, good for nothing idiots out there who’d rather cover themselves with god knows what than admit who they really are. I wasn’t allowed to hide it.

NO! WHY! They found out, they saw the marks on my wrists while I did their washing, I’ve got nothing sharp, nothing blunt, just this stupid length of rope in the basement, I wonder, would that do?

He was only a child, 15. We found him in your basement, swinging limp, lifeless. We found a note you know, yeah.

Dear YOU,
I know what you think of me, it’s what you made me think of myself. But I’ll tell you now, because it’s my last chance.
I’m not worthless,
I’m not pathetic,
I’m not ugly,
I’m not disgusting,
I’m not wrong,
And I’m no longer YOUR accident.

Sincerely
Him

Late Saturday nights,
packed cars and
laughing friends.
Trunk monkeys,
running around
fighting and fending off
the crazy drunks and
druggies of the night.
People screaming and
laughing and
running all over.
Everyone making jokes
and annoying one another,
all of us
making memories that'll
last forever.

Gotta love them
late Saturday nights.

back in an old
familiar place
familiar burn running
down the back of my throat
a cool hot breath of air
in this back alley
a different place
then before same store
drunks druggies degenerates
wasting away with thoughts
and wine in hand
dancing in delight
at sight of
this recognized respite
where they can park their bikes
i think i might
dance with them
to that familiar rhythm
in opposition of
this sad sanguine ***** den
i think i might
sing along
the same song of sin