Drowned in meds and stupidity,
rolling off doctoral tongues.
Don't know whether to pretend
this is the best blues song a man could bring to the table
or if I've just wasted a complete week of my life.
Still walking around in pain
but the cloud of opium is hard
to dust off the sheets.
Concentrated sleep
where dreams squabble in one ear
and then farther into my brain.
The electric fire burning through my chest
reminds me that every man
is only as connected as his scrutinizing needle
as to trusting vanity.
I found myself shaking the bed
in hopes to rid the rest
left in me.
...
Comments
-
This is hard. Not is sound or in style, but in feeling. This makes me think of hitting rock bottom. Knowing that you can't go any lower but not having the faintest idea about how to go up. It's a beautiful low point in writing. Something with raw emotion.
Your ideas seems to flip through, changing every moment, like your minds way of throwing things around a room because it's the only way to get the thoughts away from you. Somehow it all still works well together. The magic of your prose I suppose.
Beautiful.
Adding your comment:
