Getting wrecked


I would rather pour my heart out into a bottle than let go of the throttle hold I have on my emotions. I would rather drink down an ocean of alcohol than swallow the notion that I’m at all vulnerable and in pain. I would rather drain my brain of memory, lose my ability to walk and speak than to be weak enough… Strong enough… To be me when I’m sober. I’d rather climb out of a hang-over that to over come my hang-ups. I would rather give me up to a black-out than to find out that I don’t like me very much. Cause I’m not “trying to get my swerve on”, I’m trying to swerve into on coming traffic. And I’m not trying to be graphic, but in terms of wrecks, I’m a sixteen car pile up. I’m not trying to “get fucked up”. I’m trying to forget that I already am. So when I slam my beer, it’s not in celebration but in fear that I can’t swallow fast enough to out run my past and bust through the gate of self-hate that has me so low that rock bottom is my ceiling, and I’ve been feeling so low that I’ve wished I’d drank more so I wouldn’t know what I’d done the night before. So low that I’ve had to be reminded that gin is not water. But I’d have rather watched the world spin than to be bothered to begin asking myself what is bothering me? When the answer is as clear as the three fingers of vodka I didn’t leave at the bottom of my glass. Why should I ask “what’s bothering me” when it’s clear to see the thing that’s “bothering me” is the past I can’t escape from. What’s “bothering me” are the obstacles I’ve yet to overcome. What’s “bothering me” are goals still left undone and the place that I’ve come from that I may have left but I carry yet like I am Atlas holding up my very own city block. What’s bothering me is that my whole life my father was a myth and I have missed every first and third and second chance I’ve ever been given. What’s bothering me? Honestly? Is trying to make this life worth living.



*This piece is not done, but I wanted to share it as it is because I think it’s going to be one of my more powerful works. It is both autobiographic AND a social commentary. I’m no longer in this mentality for the most part, but it still hits me every now and again… As it probably does for most people with the tendency to abuse substances.

**The piece is now done. I’m not sure I’m entirely happy with it. but for now, it’ll suffice.

***Third time’s the charm, I think. I think it’s done.


About Keats

Oh I'm sassy and I'm sexy, So silly sweet-and-sour Delightfully disastrous And deliciously dour I'm flippantly foolish, Filled I am with fear Can't concentrate completely, and my conduct isn't clear But to bravely be my best I Bring bravado back, BEHOLD!

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