It’s not bad or good
It’s real or fake
Because there is no good or bad sadness
There is only real or fake.
Let’s take that ink to paper
Who the hell cares if it rhymes?
You stop being the person who enjoys parties
Or anything much
You’ll be paying attention
Or thinking too much.
Sober but for that dangerous high the world doesn’t know about
High on that smack of a good time bleeding.
You’ll be a little bitter
Your head spinning,
Your heart thundering,
Your eyes burning,
Your nose running,
And you’re still trying to stay together.
The words will come.
Sometimes they don’t
And when they don’t
They’re echoing in the abyss
In bright colors and flashing lights
and fragrances you can’t quite place
they come out through your nose
from somewhere deep inside.
Let’s try the gin and weed
Because they said it gets easier
They have no fucking clue what they mean.
like the contents of your purse in zero gravity
floating, volatile, silent
for the night…
Next morning, the flood gates crash.
It’s spear tipped hangovers
and manic depression
and the block is broken.
Not because gin and weed made it easier
But because it was all gone for a while
You were a whole new possibility.
Hoping tomorrow will be just a little better,
Hoping for a new face in the mirror
Hoping the world will have shared your night of magic and the extraordinaire
But nothing will have changed
Just how sad you were.
You split a vein at your wrist
To numb the other pains
To draw away the focus
You touch your pen to it,
Then to your wet cheeks
Then again at your brow
And you turn that sadness into dinner
And more gin and weed.