It's Not Art, Luck Or Anything Else

It’s 3 AM on a Thursday. blasting music by myself, thinking something positive might arise,

After shooting tar for the 3rd time tonight, naked, alone, staring like ‘where’s my prize?’

All I can do at this point is barf these words out through my finger tips,

I’m lost and out of towels to throw in, syringes now for those psychological trips,

No more staycations, no more car excursions up north, nothing but unrepeatable memories,

I feel so goddamn alone, the words are a joke describing being brought to my knees,

My lover, my partner in crime, my life line to get me through this shit of a life, my everything,

I fucked up and made her that - my one and only - now trapped, no way to flee the sting,

Heroin, the sole reprieve I can look forward to on the daily,

As communists surround me parading their ignorance gaily,

Family gone, friends gone, dark corners at the bar are where I’m welcome,

I pay to sit there and mold, interactions with decent people are increasingly seldom,

I want to blame others, I want to blame my ex-fiance, I want to blame the abandoners,

In every dream, every memory, try to re-write, but I can’t seem to replace my hand on yours,

This story doesn’t have a happy ending, it doesn’t conclude with me successfully moving on,

I know this, I’ve accepted it, I don’t need any more evidence proving she’s gone,

The sole questions is how it’ll end for myself - the only thing I have control over,

Feeling good, bragging to an empty audience about my plastic 4 leaf clover….

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