junksick
Bluelighter
Jumping from mouth to mouth, introverted into thyself, scarring accusations from ages ago catching up to the moment. Always a bit behind, tormented with the folly of dazzling hope.
It is understood that banging on the cell doors won't get you a damn thing, yet it's still fun to do. Accosted repeatedly by the darkness weaved into desire. There is nothing left to pick up from the travesty of going about your own way. Nothing but being despised.
"Why do you judge me?" she asked, drunk and slurring. Staring at her with my mellow, narcotic tainted eyes I only shook my head and clicked my tongue against the dryness of my mouth, this is why I don't try I thought. Filth towering about me: Who was I to speak anyway? desperately drawing at my nicotine, trying to keep the buzz going. "You see, a meth-head, a tweaker, junky: Don't be judging me till your through with yourself."
Then I considered my options and looked about with clarity. How trite cliches are. I smashed her last bottle over a rock and forgot about it for a while. Drawing up the moon to be my witness. I lent it to her while I cooked up another shot.
Who is left to castigate me? On the flickering wing of my ego I noticed that I noticed myself entirely to much and what a horrible boredom this caused. Concealing myself from altercations, the menial trivialities of everyday life: balled up within, uncoiling ever so often upon my mood. I sweat, I itch, my mind flys while my body stays to fight... never has it been so much of a battle to look a person in the eyes, to leave the house, to do much of anything worthwhile.
Oblivion is boring, paradise is boring, love is ultimately boring. Drama, romance, these things are not boring. They are the chaos that we throw into the back-burners to start up every morning: Life has been turned into a soap-opera. Peering at the waves, to myself they seemed enchanted with melodies of horror and joy eternal. Fairies and other surreal machinations where littered over my mindscape so I could glide fast and free a little while longer. It all looked a little too familiar.
It is understood that banging on the cell doors won't get you a damn thing, yet it's still fun to do. Accosted repeatedly by the darkness weaved into desire. There is nothing left to pick up from the travesty of going about your own way. Nothing but being despised.
"Why do you judge me?" she asked, drunk and slurring. Staring at her with my mellow, narcotic tainted eyes I only shook my head and clicked my tongue against the dryness of my mouth, this is why I don't try I thought. Filth towering about me: Who was I to speak anyway? desperately drawing at my nicotine, trying to keep the buzz going. "You see, a meth-head, a tweaker, junky: Don't be judging me till your through with yourself."
Then I considered my options and looked about with clarity. How trite cliches are. I smashed her last bottle over a rock and forgot about it for a while. Drawing up the moon to be my witness. I lent it to her while I cooked up another shot.
Who is left to castigate me? On the flickering wing of my ego I noticed that I noticed myself entirely to much and what a horrible boredom this caused. Concealing myself from altercations, the menial trivialities of everyday life: balled up within, uncoiling ever so often upon my mood. I sweat, I itch, my mind flys while my body stays to fight... never has it been so much of a battle to look a person in the eyes, to leave the house, to do much of anything worthwhile.
Oblivion is boring, paradise is boring, love is ultimately boring. Drama, romance, these things are not boring. They are the chaos that we throw into the back-burners to start up every morning: Life has been turned into a soap-opera. Peering at the waves, to myself they seemed enchanted with melodies of horror and joy eternal. Fairies and other surreal machinations where littered over my mindscape so I could glide fast and free a little while longer. It all looked a little too familiar.
