Poetry

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?

 

But listen,

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.

 

Everything stops

In suspension

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

You remember,

Just how sad you were.

You are. ​

 

So,

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.
 

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