Bottomless

"I wanted to go
into the heights
and now I'm going to disappear
but for who."


For as long as I can remember, I thought my words came from clouds. I thought they were my balloons and as I walked floating on whatever drug it was, I believed my only connection to them was the string attached to my hand. This little fiber of productivity which extends into oblivion that no one else could ever reach themselves.

My perception was wrong, but I still haven't untied that knot from my fingers. My pen still needs ink, and as it screams childish nursery rhymes and 8 years of half assed thoughts- like an abused dog, I listen. I open my lungs to the 'inspiration' I've never closed out as being nothing but a few hours of mental r&r. Its always been my plane ticket, my way out and sometimes... I dont really know what exactly I'm leaving behind. The motherless child, the punching bag son, the aspiring wordsmith; all of these are apart of me yet I seek every avenue possible to escape them

So who I am disappearing from? Who am I doing this for?

People say drug users are selfish and that's accurate. The bottom line is that I am running from myself so therefore, I continue hurting. Selfish. Nothing ever gets solved. Its always there waiting for me when I come down and rarely do I ever just sit in that feeling. Loss, abandonment, need. These things shove me back to the pen, which leads me back to the blunt, which takes me back to those clouds where nothing can touch me. What scares me... is that I see this pattern... I know the triggers and I know the reasons. I am aware of what I'm doing. But because this space is my muse and my fuel, I can't see my feet ever touching ground fully. This creative space... is bottomless.

Someday I'd love to hear how my soul sounds without the muzzle.