Early Mornings & Empty Thoughts


I wake up with only two hours
Under my belt--and my eyes--
And a calender's worth of days
To navigate through
As if yesterday wasn't enough
To convince me to jump
And there's a kettle full of liquid motivation
And black self-medication
That seems to refill itself
With the rising sun
And whispers my name
Like the animated shadows of my dreams
So I just keep pushing back the date
Until it feels right

I've been bleached with the symptoms
Of Stockholm syndrome,
In a lifetime's worth of self mutilation
The numbers stockpile in my head
And arrange in code,
A psychological time bomb, ticking
For 16 months
482 days
And 3,076,200.144 minutes, to be exact
But I've never been very good at math
Or being proactive
So I drown out the ticking
With procrastinating over excruciating decisions
Like whether or not it's worse
To tear my skin from my bones
And risk being loved like that,
Bleeding, open, and raw
Or to ensure I remain sane,
Albeit, lonely and hanging by a noose,
In a warzone teaming with foreign emotions
And parasite soldiers
With the quirks of spontaneity

People always say, "live without fear,"
And chastise me
For breathing too rapidly
Or not breathing at all
I tend to retaliate
By plastering my complex sentiments
to my forehead, and polish them down
With artificial metaphors and syllables
But I don't comprehend them,
Not really,
It's far easier for me
To sign over my consent,
To disconnect from the eyes
And receed into my skull
While my body does the talking for me

My head knows better
Than to play Russian Roulette
With my dissociation
After all,
I'm always the one to walk away
With bullet holes for tattoos
But at least conversations with a loaded gun
Are far more stimulating
Than the ones I had in the past
With him,
And still in my dreams--
Or nightmares--
Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference
See, I'm just too busy
Eating smoke and watering myself down
With lungs full of intoxicating firewater
And caressing vapors
Than to self diagnose
And analyze
My own fucked up perception
So I cock the gun
And greet the chamber
With the warmth of an old friend

Isn't it funny
How I can't keep my shit together
My body is a temple in ruins
Barely standing with the weight of time
And yet hallow from the constant evictions
Or maybe it's more pathetic
How I plant concepts along my hairline
But my diffidence springs up like weeds
And takes up the empty spaces
Before they could sprout
Or perhaps it's just plain ironic,
How I spend the days, daydreaming
About a full conscience
Just to continue entertaining the idea
Of making love to the chaos
I can't seem to breathe without,
How I fall asleep and commit
This crimson thread to tomorrow
When I know damn well
That by the morning,
It just won't feel right.

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