My eyes grow sick of their own cyanity.

And blinking merely hastens the withdrawal.

How can novelty drugs be so familiar?

When the crepuscular screams sound vaguely choral.


In even terms, I balance myself,

and fix the world of its smallest woes.

Because I will maintain the illusion

that I am a thornless rose.


In reality my sobriety helps

but I crave the distortion.

My shaking hands will navigate

to the substance of mental contortion.


Because in the end I have no time

for those who do not want me.

And my serenity is wasted 

on those who act responsibly.


Because I don't care about that

which others spill tears for.

And I couldn't give a fuck

if they feel agony from their very core.


Because they are meaningless -

statistics in a book.

Not worth the effort,

 not from this old crook.


But none of this is true,

when I think of their eyes;

so sullen and sad

at the prospect of their demise.

And I would give anything,

to help them not hurt.

Because I reciprocate their pain

in a way I cannot subvert.

So I will help until I change,

because I make myself better.


  • ummbree

    I love the honesty in this poem! very well-written.

To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.