Inspired by Robert Lowell

I am observing the social sphere from behind a barrier…
Most people do not even press their heads against mine
On the glass wall.

Incurably enervated and entirely unenthused,
I bury myself in my room.

I wanted them to breathe my love,
But, they still won’t acknowledge I have a heart.

I am a foreign creature, freshly released into
The world of sycophants

Sure, I shattered to bits.

But, her I am, Humanity, alive and free.
Purple is my soul, and the moon, well, it bears my breadth.

The dream world and a few select friends saved me when even my sanity abandoned me;
Anad therein lies why I never again will be a beacon of hope in an utterly mendacious world.

 

 

Flowery for a Friend

As your emerald ocean eyes
Wait for another pacific sunset surprise,
All is bluish-green, white-capped calm.

Wishes upon dandelions
From forever ago still came true.

Depressively aloof from all things not truth,
Brood like a hedonist around folks
that neither bop nor jive.

I will strive for greatness for as long as I live!

Tale of Horror

Truth is, I have never been more traumatized than a week ago.  Waking up in cold sweats is unfortunate. But, last weeks nightmare was no ordinary journey into the abyss. In fact, I’d prefer to undergo the frightening and miserable near-oblivion that is delirium tremens again instead of my nightmare.

It was a Friday… a rather glorious Friday to be specific. Singing abounded. Cool breezes caressed my ruddy cheeks. Massive, snowy mountains surrounded my humble residence. I was no longer failing the Spring semester at UA-Tuscaloosa; instead, I had finalized my failures. Relieved and reinvigorated, I was indeed.

Due to my Mother’s excessive worry and my Father’s consistent silence, I elected to try to quit smoking coffin-accelerants with the assistance of nicotine patches. A week ago, I put the patch on my first patch.

To my surprise, I was not experiencing cravings, or more irritable than any other morning. I danced about the yard. I did not over eat. The patches seemed to have no side effects. Like any sane twenty-tree year old, I decided to celebrate.

I got drunk as fuck as quickly as I could.

I basked in the glory that is alcohol for a few hours. To elaborate, I did what any drunken, lonely man my age should do: sang songs, wrote poetry, read literature. As the tilt-a-whirl express began to embrace my consciousness whilst simultaneously disorienting my equilibrium, I began to doze off. Before I began to snore, I let out a magnificent breath and smiled myself to sleep.

Next out of fucking nowhere, I am subsumed by shrill, vicious tar monsters. The sheer amount of fear those inter dimensional demons instilled puts the moments of sheer terror during acid into the category of bummers.

As what seemed like eternal damnation continued to never cease, I began living out my living in a way I never had before. The fresh perspective was unfamiliar. It was ghost-like. It was ghastly. Sensing everything that could have been through the minds of everyone I currently miss or once knew, the sheer amount of loathing and disgust expresses about my character was like a scimitar to soul.

Then, I saw myself in a karmic mirror with skin as permanently damaged as my lungs. I began shedding tears of tar. Far from lucid, entirely wanting to die, the scene transformed into me playing ping pong with my former smoking buddy, who hasn’t spoken to me in six months. I was so relieved my laud a lord in whom I do no believe in was sky bound.

In a characteristic dream like fashion, there was a vicissitude that shattered my psyche to smithereens. I’d rather my ten year child friend move away all over again. My ping pong pal transformed into the ghost of my dying older brother who said loudly and clearly, “Everything you just saw was me. It was an experience of all you would have known about me if you weren’t off killing yourself twenty times a day.” It should be stated here that my brother is not dying in real life.

As the dream was clearly ending, I saw my old mathematics professor twirling a strange, infinite lemniscate. He bluntly stated, “Best of luck with your mid-life crisis kid. This was only a dream. It’s the rest of your life that is the nightmare.” Finally, I awoke coated in sweat with tears in my bloodshot eyes.

For a Friend

Torrential worries fill my heat and mind.

This anxiety is like spiral staircase,
Which is questionably an overreaction,
All the same is a constant source of sorrow.

Pleading with for a platform to rest on
Or to escape the dizzying lack of
approachable center,

I’m left in the dark wondering if you may be
feeling the same nausea I do
That stems from being the only thing tethered to my reality.

That’s the thing about red-eyed and bleary-eyes…
They are both sad.

I do miss vacations from real with you,
even if I am mumbling half formed syllables
about the once upon a time that never was.

But, that’s the thing about substance induced oblivion.

One day, the pain of loss
Becomes so amplified,
It becomes all that there is.

Fear not, I guess.
The scrabbling, or grappling, for acceptance
works itself out eventually.

Please don’t make the mistakes,
which I have made, in the coming months…

Thrills and pills, trills and benders,
green clouds and yellow stains…
These are the choices you ace, Ace.

The former are predominantly what I recommend.
Don’t be afraid of you slip up a little.

Please be good to yourself, Old Friend.

Love you regardless I most certainly will,
‘Tis jus damnable offense to not speak
ones mind to a greathero who is susceptible to tarnishing.

Stay gold, Old Pal.

Bipolar Romance

It’s red wine nights or an absence of fully blossomed beatitude.

It’s frequent pondering of one day realities and making them come true, me and you.

And, it’s all about the when and why
because I’ll have the how and what down pat.

I will softly and soundly sift through the shit-heads that use me for what is truly, carefully calculated chump change, laughing maniacally along the way.

Blow me, Bitches?!

I promise to sort through the kinks in my life,
projecting nothing nothin short of lovely feelings into your irreproachable, far-reaching, magnificent
mind.

..

They say only make love to one’s wife,

Yet in my opinion, there is much more to living out life and love than sexual exclusivity.

In fact, it is about the heart and heart only.
And, if yours doesn’t race like an iambic amphetamine suburban teenagers once did,

I don’t want you around forever.

To me, and maybe to a few others, monogamy is as limiting as the promises of a beautiful sunrise during my suicidal nineteenth year, during which I was way worse off more frequently than I ever admitted.

Why? Because.

Because it is all too filled with ever so broken, yet not entirely impossible, promises.

At this point, I’d like to confess, that I will always be a mess.

But, I’m fine with them– my crooked dreams
and curiously juxtaposed halo-rings
surrounding imaginary supermassive star solar flares

that are actually me talking about

my future maybe-spouse’s G-spot.

And,  my own Aphrodite, will bow my cock like a cello.
Oh, how our bodies will vibrate harmoniously with laud and vivacity.

Moreover, if you don’t want candle lit lotion massages
And bubble baths after we fuck on the kitchen table,
just tell me.

I can easily run away to another lass with a fat ass in the meadow of blazing hearts that is the land of sweet, sweet love.

Quite frankly, she will be just as wonderful as you in some ways.
But in some respects, you will still be missed.
I guess you can both have bits of my heart.

Furthermore, I dance to Ellie Goulding to work on my strip teases.

I’ve never told any one that secret.

Also, I eat pussy extraordinary well, especially if you rest drugs on your belly as a reward.
But fear not, I won’t rush you.
I’ll just do a line or watch you roll a joint for afterwards.

With Love,
Sean Matthew Smith