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rachel mccauley May 2013
With you near,
I fear that it will never be clear on how I feel,
your my soul,
my happy pill,
without you I will be ill,
withdraws,
shaking, sweating, the whole nine yards.

You have to stay,
or I will soon be in vein..

My heart is beating so fast,
My breathing hurts,
Your arms around me tight and you don't let me go,
I never want to let go,
don't take my drugs away,
I cant suffer anymore,
your my happy pill,
Don't let me be ill,
make me still,
you can heal,
when you call my name,
theres no other that can make me feel the same,
just stay,
and give me my medication,
be my daily dosage
until I am completely corroded,
get comfortable,
there will never be a day,
that I cant say,
I Need You..
Dorothy Sep 2014
"So the thing is, the thing is. And that thing is this:

I live in a bit a blurr (a bit of, sorry), I can think (can’t, sorry), I am forever interested in disillusion (how am I still breathing?). What are grammar, what is speling, spieling all the **** I used to feel so burn in stomach; I used to be so alive.

Maybe it was the Dramamine I took in bed this morning with twice my scrip of xanaxian colored pillz devouring like candy yum how delicious is it to disappear, I am in love with the Nothing of it all (I’m no nihilist, though, no.)

For example, for proof, I shall explain how yesterday I had a long beautiful walk along the water with lovely friends and we laughed and I even ate healthy even though I did drink (how many nights of the week do I? Don’t ask, please, but it’s New York, that’s what we all do — right, that’s what we all do?)

But I’m not a sad girl, I’m not a sad girl anymore, I’m just a blurred girl now, I can’t even see myself straight, how do I expect anyone to see me. (Should there have been a question mark after that.)

Switch lines like knives’ eyes (wait, what kind of line, literary or otherwise?) I try to focus on pages, I try to focus on work, but all I can do is mutter and mispell misspelll twice and attempt to convince myself (and you, sir, lady) that I’m perfectly fine. Italicized.

The truth is (and here’s the crazy part) I actually am fine, I actually am fine for the first time in a long time, I’m mostly actually amazing and ecstatic and all those great ALL CAPS words we toss around in life on phones in text like little sweet congrats donuts, but I guess the truth is that I’m also something else, I’m also volatile, I’m both happy and a mess, I’m just in progress, I guess. I’m honest, I’m honest, I’m not hiding this time behind a second person narrative (god how comforting those babies are).

No, this time, I’m just telling the truth, and the truth is the thing; and the thing is, I am better than I’ve been in a while except in certain small moments when everything collapses inward crushing down, and in these moments, I am helpless and hapless and less than everything I want to be. I want to be perfect, you know. I want to happy all of the time.

I want every day to be like yesterday.

But today is not. Today is just wrongly prescribed glasses making everything all hazy glazed over, today is just overused parentheticals explaining things to people who don’t need to be explained to.

Feel free to hate me, I do sometimes. Feel free to love me, I do sometimes. Feel free to vindicate me / indicate me / masticate me in crunching acid commentary.

but GUESS WHAT

today is just today

tomorrow will be tomorrow

(obligatory obvious, sorry)

But it all adds to the very bones of the thing which is: this moment I want to ***** up all my self indulgent sadness and be okay, but I cannot do anything but snuggle it in corners into words and have faith that the other end of the daylight holds a girl in sharper focus than this one"
-by  *ZK Lowenfels*
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
oculus per oculus - otherwise:
ear for a year...
a cherry pickled
and a cucumber sloppy
over an iceberg...
dicta: desired limbo...

otherwise: mollusks'
adventures in
the domain of sluggish:
via... no loitering
beside an echo
of: the loitering
around a figurative
sea...

         for an eye for an eye:
but give me van gogh's ears!
will there be...
    a burn agony of
deaf when cheese grating
and sizzling...

cut my ear off:
  the four horsemen of the apocalypse:
and that one
steadying a donkey's gallop...

cuts the ear off and sees
van gogh in a cubism of psychedelia...
the best greek / albanian will know...
spank a dozen morbid quasi
alt junction of:
reserving your place upon
the descent of a new kitchen...

granny grins... and granny sows
the grim architecture of an amiss...
  befriending shadows...
stating: toward the junctions
of reverse kleptomania:
the trench is not a grave...

            texan vector of blue-gushing
auxiliary vendors of...
that liquid breath...
                  by midnight i am no
cry of jurisprudence...
given a heart is a wheelchair
and the antihero is given...
a lollipop of Foucault...

blue suave within the confines
of the plethora of spices...
              because the miracle
of ginger and turmeric on the joints...

some variation of a time stopped...
a history is a corpse with
a breath of puffing ash...
and the suicides have to live
in Weimar Berlin...

           it's not that there's a fixation
on joke:
   discouraging...
a bureaucracy of capitalism like
that of socialism - one hand washes
the other...
two grand gestures of a narrative...
buttered side of the toast dropped
lands face-palm first...
                smothered bottoms up...
to this whirlwind cocktail
of events: my little world
of some variation of kafkaesque
personal:
                   it's hardly any argument:
genesis economics...
the litigation of processes that
end up being either scrapped or...
somehow borrowed from
obscurity:
                 a blockage of details
that heave no narrative except
a shrapnel guise...

                          this... thespian autocracy
over the arts...
we're all expected to write for free...
or... because it's free:
everyone is expected to do so!
no matter...
            i can hope to find
as much of the same procrastination
and anathema in my own
self-loathing i.q. quotas
of diminished replica responsibility...

            the british did save
the eastern indians...
    hell: the pyramids were kept...
because of their cuisine...
            a grand architectural people
came across a ***** of an eden
of spices...
not exactly scurrying for fruits...
forbidden or not...
the death of poetry came with:
a "nuance": sentence! poetic justice!
karma-rhymes?!

the blatant use of black cardamom...
cumin seeds...
"give me curry" in south america...
i.e. chimichurri!
advent of worship to the people
of a past that return to these isles...
like... a silk road camel caravan...
implosion of the seas!
clearly!
             no other year 0...
                    out of circumstances
that history allows...
nostalgia for the 1960s in england...
or 1950s h'america...

            nostalgia and the concept
of butterflies: dressed otherwise:
some variation of adjective to not
loiter around a noun like: concept...
something to expose a tautology
of misnomers in the riddle of a person
not accustomed to rhetoric:

            lay me to bed: body farthest...
mind agitated... come the agony
of being sentenced with a midnight
in an armchair; lay me to bed...
you have no honour: for you have no
reputation...
believe me: this is the least
of what ambition might desire...
consider... an arbeit macht frei work
ethos... a continual stream of 5am wake...
and those demands of
honest work: not the sort of work
of loitering...
         loitering like excesses
of libido: by office alone
of insignia procrastination...
       e.g. in a supermarket...
               could the security guard...
"take me"?
              i don't think so...
i would care if it was the end of the 19th
century and it was somewhere
like Colorado...

let to live...
   the dead have already fathomed
blisters of imprint with oysters
to tease a crab bucket 's worth of
a mounting pressure from
faking mountain with pyramid...

my what a...
******* of 11pm that any other day
would not give up...
me... exfoliating...
with: ambitions concerning Proust...
one up from a tease of Flaubert...
the darling the darling...
you will never mind a continental
writer cite Dickens...
   such an anglophonic extreme of...
   credible: furtherance?
no... not across the tadpole stream...
perhaps across the pond...

          not much to think about:
had i been born... 40 years ago...
                  i'm just sifting through the dust
and limp little richards
and ****** pillz-me-ups...
        and... i guess...
watching a stripper is a bit like
making epitomes of homosexuality
disguised in a well-off attire...
or... making concerns for attention
to detail... at the local butcher's...
however splendid the meat:
the "meat"...
geisha slender itchy tip-toeing quasi ballet...
yeah... one of those...
left-over crumb-fests
that's both Queen and U2
in the anthem criterium
of songs...

                    nothing personal UB40 paddy
go shackle: the urn to a *******
guillotine of harp...
                     such that living
on the isles the welsh, that the scots (as potential)...
certainly... are almost invisible people
should the demographic of Birmingham
be "stressed"...
                         but i have
lived in Scotland and it's unlike
this...       historical England...
this ahistorical London - even on
the northern outskirts in the home counties -
or nearest the trough of the south -
at some figment of my imagination
Brixton -
       how far do the earworms burrow beneath
the clay south of the river?
not very far... Morden?!
is that it?

     Lady Upminster and all that district...
this is not a time for either
rebellion or celebration...
             it's hardly a timekeep of
mourning...
                    it's an ahistorical event:
right now!
      some vagary of a future...
some bricks of a past...
a horrid interpretation of compass:
the crucifix: as driftwood toward north...
and a late cubism...
exfoliation of african ****** details...

             slender hue: my porky pie
pink amber come moonlight...
or some necessary stressor of skins...
                    prior to the door...
a leather doormat...
   onto which i made sacrifices
of my buckle and teeth... and...
                                                lepus dei.
Yeah, yeah, yeah…
Uh, try to let it go, but it stay on me.
Can’t escape it, nah, it stay on me.
Look—

[Verse 1]
I wake up, bottle by the sink, come on big guy the sky is feeling real low.
No cap, ***** is twisted; got me relying on the daily dose.
Wonder if the moment will come, where I succumb; comatose.
Desensitized to the trauma; just another name, just another overdose.
Tried to quit once, but the withdrawal raked me over the coals.

Got chemistry like Walter white.
Meds in the bloodstream, I’m my own worst enemy.
Dark days, every night mama praying against the debauchery.
Brain fightin’ back, but it’s hard findin’ energy.

Prescription like a chain on my mental frame,
Want the freedom, but the pain always call my name.
Can’t fake it, wish I didn’t need to take it to stay sane.
Life is a bane, that breaks the backs of anyone not just Bruce Wayne.

[Chorus]
Pop one, pop two, keep it on repeat,
Tryna break free, but it’s holdin’ on deep.
Sick of this cycle, man, I can’t retreat,
But without it, I’m stuck, can’t feel my own feet.

Pop one, pop two, keep it on repeat,
Chasin’ the dragon to escape the streets.
Sick of being tired, tired of being sick,
But without it, I feel like a cat in heat.

[Verse 2]
Aye, doctor talkin’ ’bout “Take ‘em as prescribed,”
But these side effects got me questionin’ the vibe.
One for the head, one just to stay alive,
Now I’m a prisoner to the pills that I despise.

Homie, they don’t know the fight in my cortex,
Smile on my face, but I’m cryin’ behind the subtext.
Weight on my soul, yeah, it’s crushin’ my complex,
Tryna medicate the pain, while being caught  up in a vortex.

**** hits like a ******* boomerang;
Worlds lookin’ cold, wondering if I’ll ever see spring.
Tryna be myself, but the pill’s have tangled me up in these puppet strings.

[Chorus]
Pop one, pop two, keep it on repeat,
Tryna break free, but it’s holdin’ on deep.
Sick of this cycle, man, I can’t retreat,
But without it, I’m stuck, can’t feel my own feet.

Pop one, pop two, keep it on repeat,
Chasin’ my balance, but it’s hard to compete.
Sick of this pill talk, life ain’t sweet,
But without it, I’m lost in the dark, no beat.

[Bridge]
Feel like a zombie, brain in a fog,
Tryna find God, but I’m lost in the smog.
Check the mirror, don’t even know me at all,
But if I drop these meds, man, I’m bound to fall.

Double-edge sword, yeah, it cuts both ways,
Better days ahead, but it’s locked in a maze.
Chasin’ my peace, but I’m stuck in the daze,
And the pill bottle whispers, “This the only way.”

[Outro]
Yeah, I need ‘em, but I hate ‘em too,
Every day, new battle, what I’m supposed to do?
They tell me that it’s normal, like it’s not abuse,
But I’m fightin’ for my freedom, tryna cut it loose.

Pop one, pop two, keep it on repeat…
Man, it stay on me, yeah, it stay on me…

— The End —