I pour the drink by the hour
Wishing I was your lover
At rush hour
I struggle to focus my gaze
I pray and hope and climax
I cry and laugh
Innocence is a child
In the summer
I was never innocent
My soul was wild from the day I was born
Raising Hell in my mother's stomach
She had to get a C section
At night when the air is thick
When people are sleeping for work
I often think about things like that
Days at the beach
By the ice cream truck
Cooling off
Missing when I was always happy
With no worries
Being a teenager, at school
Taking life for granted
Being an adult can suck at the best of times
I've got money problems and daily struggles
Feeling like coins in a bank
Still a boy at heart, not a man
Yes, I grow hair like the rest of them
Although I relate more with Peter
Something in me yearns for freedom
At times I feel like a mouse in a trap
Alone with my addictions
At night
I am a perfect victim
Vulnerable, in a labyrinth
I am a perfect victim
At night
With my flaws
Blocking out years of chaos
I barely remember my memories
I don't know what happened to me
Along the way I've forgotten what it's like
To live life with the best intentions
Sometimes I find it hard remembering
I had the potential to make it
Still I feel like I crashed and burned
So many times I have to remind myself
I'm still young
There's still time left, fleeting like a ship
Fleeting like medical happiness
Enamoured with the dark hours
I want to kiss you and never stop
My lips are trembling with excitement
The drugs take away my sadness for a while
But then I wake back up at square one
I numb myself to kill the pain
Then I'm never the same
Most days I don't know who I am
That's the part I can't understand
I thought I was someone in L.A
I can't put a finger on when it went wrong
The first time I tried to kill myself
I must've been seventeen
Lost in the silence
Hanging onto life with a heartbeat
I was like crashing sea waves
Sick of it, with a fake smile
I exclaim I'm fine
I've died a thousand times
100 pills later
I was rushed to the hospital
Drained, unconscious, half-there
Stomach pumped, I failed miserably
Took more pills, slashed my wrists
With the sharpest knife I could find
Even had my neck in a noose
Passed a bridge
Wanting to throw myself off
I'm a liability every hour on the clock
I don't know how it got to that point
A part of me wonders why
Life took a turn for the worst
I was playing a game with death
I faced it, but I wasn't scared
Now my past is a blur
A withered flower
Everyday I'm faced with constant trauma
At night
I am a perfect victim
Vulnerable, in a labyrinth
I am a perfect victim
Left to my own devices
Sour and histrionic
Dreaming of sunny times
I'm close to the shore
Breathing like I've never breathed before
I've dimmed the lights, acknowledged my fears
I can't run from the monsters under my bed
The violent thrill rushes through me
Like electricity
I echo with dread
Drama unfolded like washed clothes
I picked low hanging fruit on a tree
September dewdrops
This year I turned twenty two
I felt nothing
Couldn't find it in myself to celebrate
Highs and lows
Making big decisions
Staring at the computer with tired eyes
With smoke in my eyes
Sending emails
A fire is burning in my soul
I don't want it to end
I can't pretend
I somewhat feel better now
I've poured it out
Tomorrow
I'm going to set myself free.
- Author: Jordan Cash (Pseudonym) ( Offline)
- Published: September 16th, 2020 00:44
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 93
Comments2
Dearest X-man, I'm stunned by the self-awareness of this little autobiography of the mind. From before your birth to your 22nd year, in a few dozen lines. The line I was never innocent is brilliant, but of course it's not true. You are still awfully innocent, and I suspect you know you are. I always feel honored to be let into your thoughts rendered so intensely into free/unfree verse.
♥♥♥
once started, I could not stop until the end ...
a compelling tale told well.. I hope this is a reflection of your vivid writers imagination rather than autobiographical....
Flattered, but the vast majority of my poetry is actually autobiographical, as is this piece. I would consider myself a sloppy Confessionalist.
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