Creative Madness and the Annoyance of Hope

I remember the wars that left my mind wounded, sliced open like the rarest meat, dripping the hangover song on the deli counter. The abandoned homes lined the streets of my heart crumble as I age. In the communities where I was once a social butterfly, only a burnt out chrysalis.

I’ve journeyed through the murky sewer stench of youthful trauma, damp with guilt and tears. The soaking sludge of melted flesh gripped the frayed fibers commonly known as feelings. I stood knees knocking, the blind walk along memory lane, into the void. Each dream, a shooting star burning like a beacon of truth, only to be extinguished by realities vicious wind.

So I belly crawl beneath my rusty barbed wire muses that cut my back open as they pass quickly into cold nights of my own mythology. These lasting scars that once breathed life are mere subtle goosebumps in my convoluted ether. Lofting as the faint scent of cheap whiskey floating through my latest nosebleed, the senses fail, malfunctioning as I light another breathless cigarette.

Every day the dark reminds me I was supposed to turn in my keys years ago, say goodbye, and yet that annoyance that some call hope, asks me to renew my lease. So I crawl back into that uncomfortable bed, burning a candles worth of slumber. Waking with thoughts of uncertainty, fear, and the slightest inclination that life may not just be a failed theory scribbled in an old book. I step weary into another shadow box fight with my self, resulting in a mosaic reflection of my broken self image. I grasp for the beauty found in grey skies and melancholy songs. Humming minor chord tubes left naked on floor, exposed. Each morning greets me sunny side up, so I try to force a smile to show my gratitude. If not, I’ll bear the burden of a weighted day ahead.

In the end I’m either a survivor or a ghost, often times it seems I am both, sliding in and out of consciousness. My reality drifting out to sea, only to come back with the tides of sanity. This madness is my strength, my refuge, and my curse. It gifts me with creative fevers that burn hot but also a crippling anxiety that hinder my steps. It is with in this battle I find my life’s poetry, jumbled up into fragments, and only I know the way they fit together. This is the reason I survive, my art, my my only true voice.

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