a well-dressed mess,
I am merely a man with
a sinister past seeking redemption.
bitching, venting, & ranting--
three verbs which bring peace and
temporary relief to a mind bound in chains.
with flaws like these they're a necessity
for the perpetuation of my own sanity.
a potent addiction to words
mixed with the use of these verbs,
writing is my outlet-
my prime reprieve,
my superlative release
in pursuit of an escape from my reality
which was once capable of compelling
my lips to crease into a smile,
but now only fills my chest with the tension
of a thousand cold-sweat soaked nightmares.
writing injects my mind with lucidity
while I seek a return to actuality,
necessary flow of
thoughts powerful enough
to keep these demons composed of
crushed, lined up pills and
endless liquor bottles at bay.
I feel as if a genius today.
I love every letter, word,
& line that I've written.
the feeling is fleeting, though.
tomorrow I'll think this shit worthless
and I'll consider deleting it all.
but I can't part with it--
to my utter inability to
forget and let go of this
fading amatory connection
which once gave me hope,
as well as sex that left scars,
both cerebral and somatic.
I loved her so fucking much;
if I'm being honest, I still do.
as a parting favor,
do not mistake the words I write
with those of apathy and despair;
they sting off the tip of the tongue,
but they come from a place that's sincere
and filled with more than mere goodwill.
I simply have a crestfallen
and contrite perspective.
this, too, will
pass with time.
or so they say.