I thought I was happy
But Mr Xanax showed otherwise
I thought I was free
Mr Xanax gave me a whole new freedom
I thought I was content
Xanax swaddled me to safe sleep like a goddamn sob of six
Xanax is life
Xanax is love
Xanax is freedom
Xanax is truth
Xanax is bliss
(Fiction, for the concerned)
A 220 jolts of volt,
Can kill you.
But so can love.
A cocktail of
Propofol and Demerol
Can snuff you out.
But so can longing.
Heroin and crack and acid
Will waste your short life away
But so will unrequited longing.
Gazing, wide eyed and unfocused,
Seeing demons beyond the normal
Is what they do to you,
Killing slowly inside.
And when in addict's thoughts
The addict of love or the substance?
Things are better than ever,
Thoughts so much clearer...
The stash ends
So does the fevered frenzy of faux fun.
Sharp knives stab deep
But they don't dance in the intestines
Poking and scraping and scratching
Till the Vitality's left to nuthin'
A bolt of cloudy light
Kills you without a fight
No howling and growling
Inside your tummy tight
PS: if you liked this, I wrote this about stomachache and not love originally, but it seemed to fit.
This is a bad idea.
It really doesn't make any sense, and could show me in a negative light.
I look dumb because of this.
It is stupid.
It raises expectations unrealistically and obviously fails to meet them.
It is impossible to achieve given the current trajectory.
In any case. I'm publishing a book, probably a novel but maybe not by the end of this year. If I don't find a publisher I'll self publish. If I don't get an editor, I'll hire one. This is happening.