“I’ve had a lifetime of those nights” lamented the darkly reflective drunk, his lingering glass haunting the gravely occupied bar top
“She was the trigger, my nature the gun” a shot glass fired back as fast as the barman’s delivery can fuel each measured chapter of the destructive act
“The hour of that eternity, the second my sanity left” the barman lets the drunk further into a bottles drifting stupor retreat, merci ridden is such an act when faced with the grim looks he serves every deathly night he fuels the internally dead
“Now let me never be sober, or I’ll catch a razor blade death” as into the night fades all that makes the barfly’s mood so stained an unhappy shade of black, blissfully darker with each liquid bullet downed in increasingly uncoordinated shots
“And if that bitch says I raised a finger” a pause in bleak spirited pace, slurring words to a timely length equal to the rope each depressive uses to tie their noose
“Let it be known, lies and an empty bottle carry more weight in the eyes of a judge” the shot glass dismissing its contents to the floor, the intended drinker passing out
Not a grimace of pain upon impact with the floor many have called a bed, but a look of content to mark the hallowed event to be free of conscious memory of all he drinks to forget
The edge of suicide is the limit of life
A knife on the wrist a dark lament
The time until the deed full of unhappy moments
As into the fading black I release a final breathe
—- *** ! *** —-
“I would rather live one day as myself than a lifetime as a lie
As I must die inside to play role that others demand”
—- *** ! *** —-
Ask a depressive the remaining time they have to claim
That’s like asking a raindrop how long it takes to fall
The resulting fatal conclusion of each very much the same…
—- *** ! *** —-
“A smile in lonely silence carries more emotion than a forced grin in social survivalism”
A Thankyou to all those whose brilliant posts inspire me
A fated sip of depressions finest poison…
“What hath become of men’s minds when the restricting vines of this mortal coil doth strangle logic
Sanity a saint’s reserve as all into this world born a demon’s fire does turn flame to happiness
In all the world a man’s mind doth descend to where it all becomes a mirror of insanity”
Sledgehammer subtlety a luxury to wish for as the metaphorical slam job condemns with the physical force of a runaway freight train; it’s been that kind of a week!
Holding hellion tight every lucidly horrendous tendril of my nervous state with but a jaded (to put to shame any depressive arsehole) sense of positivity, waving so carelessly into the face of the coming storm front akin to the scaled destruction to any heavy metal festival on acid.
That is the dose of prickly punctuating due I hath earned through the mortally damning sin of hard work, the thing so demanded but rarely rewarded in glittering ribbons and wrapped with human warmth for the lonely single man. All endured so I may wastefully pay the price in illness through the hallowed free time so given the name of ‘Weekend’, which even then I work!
And so where does the condemned turn; The arms of a good woman? The merrily greeting arms of friends? The warming hues of a functional family?.. NO
I see only a bar so hauntingly inhabited by the corrupting patrons of a demonic curse, as so prescribed in mournful jest by the unholy trilogy, a place so praised in everlasting screaming that beckons forth in attempts of resistance these three horsemen; Anxiety, Depression and Stress
The demons do drown a bottle or two as my glass overflows with outpourings of acidic hate towards those red horned bar stewards providing the drinks, alas the unforgiving state a man may find his fractured self drowning in when those demons are all which keep the fires burning at night. Even less forgiving the disdainfully tormenting embers of that fire; the result of purest rage rampantly consuming with reddened flames, each licking of these so elatedly heated daggers no longer drawing a scream of pain but in loud acclaim a royally coated ‘Fuck you’ in full literary regalia.
And surely all this should be so painlessly remunerated but by the hallowed knowledge that all this I will endure again such redemption murkily sinks to where despair reeks a fouler sense of ill intent, even less gratifying is the fact that should I turn to a razor that others will suffer, so in that self accusing knowledge I must live on.
I would consider myself rich in good values but each cursed tome of morality seems only a weight to drag me down to deepened levels of honest intentioned hell.
“If pain is a reminder that we are alive to live in elated merriness
So I should be dead by the overdosing of joy
Or in lack of feeling know that elated merriness is dead
And no longer a taunt in every suffering second of life I must remain”