Where do I begin? What a classic start. A far-cry of my life. My spirit’s torn apart.
An acrid smell of diesel. Improperly emissioned fumes. Stuck in this train seat. Memories haunt my gloom.
Where can I escape? Reminders crawl and teem. It’s a living nightmare… of love’s potential gleam.
This god-dammed crap. I fucking hate this shit. Yet again I want just blackness. Memories untimely rip.
Depression is, in my eyes: preference of the solitary naught. Because the tears dry in my sockets with no more pleasure sought.
Seeking a lover’s embrace has been a constant journey. And when I found her, I was blind. Intimacy ignorance only hurt me.
Then I faced my condition. Too many pathways through my brain. And although my reception’s clear. So are methods inflicting pain.
I couldn’t sleep while lying. And didn’t care to eat. But I functioned exceptionally. Always up and on the beat.
But things didn’t make sense. Reality was a choice. My mind was somehow somewhere. With a very active voice.
I fell, I spiraled through chaos. But I didn’t know I was falling. False epiphany’s and revelation. Denial of the doctors’ calling.
And then I was “healed.” With a new drug in my blood. Complicating the cocktail. Muddled murky dirty mud.
I hate my altered self. I hate that I feed it. I hate the pills I take. Knowing that I need it.