DeepAsleep
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jul 17, 2004
- Posts
- 774
(can I hammer my brain into poetry, through ranting? Film at eleven!)
it's a bitch, you know? I really wanted to crumple up all the poetry I wrote and chuck it over my shoulder. I wanted to have done with it, because it scares me. But three in the morning and most of a bottle of J & B makes me really want to pour out my soul. I think it's bullshit that I seem to need liqour in order to be honest with myself (and it does seem that I'm really trying to talk to myself, here on lit, more than I'm trying to talk to you)......
But whatever gets you by, right? Ends, means? Fuck it, I'm here. I don't even want to write a poem, I just don't know where else to go. Ah, drama and youthful bullshit. I used to think i missed it, but it's been here with me all along. you don't see it when you tell yourself you're growing up. Which is a farce. I've been eighteen for five years. I've just gotten better at making my bullshit sound good.
.....my crap aside, there's a new poet ranging around here on lit named TrevorBlack - he's a real life friend of mine who i introduced here, because I felt something promising in the poetry he let me read. He's raw, but work with him. I think he's got a lot to give, somewhere inside him.
Rantrantrant. What changes? Little, little. The hole in my stomach lining gets bigger and I'm still not as black-out trashed as i want to be. ......
Staring, staring. This feels so juvenile.
"Which is worse? The fool, the fool that follows, or the fool that remains?"
"Not knowing."
"What's worse than that?"
"Knowing and not knowing how to change."
I feel locked up. In both the jail and dead-stop sorts of ways. Bah. I don't suppose smoking pot and drinking is going to set me free (..."who binds you?" "no-one." "why then do you seek to be free?") but.... really, at this point, I'm not sure I'm sober enough to care.
I used to tell myself there was a freedom in being at rock bottom, where things couldn't get any worse. A certain freedom in being pushed into the mat. I've got so few things left to lose, these past weeks... It's not comforting, anymore. I lived paycheck to paycheck, scraping by on ten bucks a week just to eat. I sold plasma to live, last year, three months with a needle in my arm twice a week just to keep food in my face and gas in my car so i could get from a to b. I'm staring the needle in the eye tomorrow and man... I don't want to be that shadow, again. I don't wnt to be cold because I'm running saline instead of blood, again.
You never get this down on your luck in summer. It's the cold that got me the worst. You leave the building wearing a sweater and a jacket and the shaking doesn't stop until you get home under the covers because it's not just blood you give up. It's the last inch of pride they take out right before they pump the saline in, when they hand you your little printed card with your transaction number and you line up in front of the plasma-store ATM waiting for your twenty bucks. 20 bucks on day one, but ooh, baby, the second time's the charm, cos' it's worth 30 and man, it's like christmas.
"I sold a quart of blood and bought a half a pint of scotch" - Tom Waits
Hah. I dunno if I can do it, again. "blood bank" ....
How many bullets does it take to make the world a better place? I want 100. I want 100 bullets. I could work with that.
....
it's a bitch, you know? I really wanted to crumple up all the poetry I wrote and chuck it over my shoulder. I wanted to have done with it, because it scares me. But three in the morning and most of a bottle of J & B makes me really want to pour out my soul. I think it's bullshit that I seem to need liqour in order to be honest with myself (and it does seem that I'm really trying to talk to myself, here on lit, more than I'm trying to talk to you)......
But whatever gets you by, right? Ends, means? Fuck it, I'm here. I don't even want to write a poem, I just don't know where else to go. Ah, drama and youthful bullshit. I used to think i missed it, but it's been here with me all along. you don't see it when you tell yourself you're growing up. Which is a farce. I've been eighteen for five years. I've just gotten better at making my bullshit sound good.
.....my crap aside, there's a new poet ranging around here on lit named TrevorBlack - he's a real life friend of mine who i introduced here, because I felt something promising in the poetry he let me read. He's raw, but work with him. I think he's got a lot to give, somewhere inside him.
Rantrantrant. What changes? Little, little. The hole in my stomach lining gets bigger and I'm still not as black-out trashed as i want to be. ......
Staring, staring. This feels so juvenile.
"Which is worse? The fool, the fool that follows, or the fool that remains?"
"Not knowing."
"What's worse than that?"
"Knowing and not knowing how to change."
I feel locked up. In both the jail and dead-stop sorts of ways. Bah. I don't suppose smoking pot and drinking is going to set me free (..."who binds you?" "no-one." "why then do you seek to be free?") but.... really, at this point, I'm not sure I'm sober enough to care.
I used to tell myself there was a freedom in being at rock bottom, where things couldn't get any worse. A certain freedom in being pushed into the mat. I've got so few things left to lose, these past weeks... It's not comforting, anymore. I lived paycheck to paycheck, scraping by on ten bucks a week just to eat. I sold plasma to live, last year, three months with a needle in my arm twice a week just to keep food in my face and gas in my car so i could get from a to b. I'm staring the needle in the eye tomorrow and man... I don't want to be that shadow, again. I don't wnt to be cold because I'm running saline instead of blood, again.
You never get this down on your luck in summer. It's the cold that got me the worst. You leave the building wearing a sweater and a jacket and the shaking doesn't stop until you get home under the covers because it's not just blood you give up. It's the last inch of pride they take out right before they pump the saline in, when they hand you your little printed card with your transaction number and you line up in front of the plasma-store ATM waiting for your twenty bucks. 20 bucks on day one, but ooh, baby, the second time's the charm, cos' it's worth 30 and man, it's like christmas.
"I sold a quart of blood and bought a half a pint of scotch" - Tom Waits
Hah. I dunno if I can do it, again. "blood bank" ....
How many bullets does it take to make the world a better place? I want 100. I want 100 bullets. I could work with that.
....
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