PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I think I'll smoke a cig, as I jot this one down.
Because I'm in it for the long haul.
I'm all-nightin'-vicodin.
Just lit my last Pall Mall.

Wish I knew where to begin, but better yet,
Where to end it.
I'm intelligent, but I'm immature.
I am so in love, but so much out of luck.
I feel so alone, besides my own voice in my skull.
I must be hollow, to explain the echo.
This cigarette's makin' me sick, so I put it out.
I know I'll still finish it before this poem.

Since the day I learned memory,
I've been judged by my potential.
I've been judged by my mistakes.
I'd love to be loved for me.

The word potential is an illusion
Created by the judgmental,
That know not what it takes,
To wake up and be me.
The cig has been re-lit.

I share my love with somebody
I don't want to share with anybody,
But I can't have her to myself.
The cigarette is gone and I feel sick.

I'm going to puke.

Oh yeah, I puked. I puke a lot these days.
Everything seems to make me sick.
...As I light this Pyramid. 100.

And listen to my aunt's dream,
Negative like the rest.
I'm so weak all the time. I shake.
I have to buy a gallon of milk today,
To replace what I used tonight,
To coat the lining of my stomach,
Which was puked up anyways.

There's no point in sleeping now.
Pay attention, to this last bit...
It's important, at least.
It's apparent, at best...
It's this girl, it's these drugs.
It's a synopsis of every poem I write,
Condensed into these four lines:

Now I see the purposelessness. I tricked myself.
Now I see the purposelessness. I can't be someone else.
Now you see the purposelessness behind my eyes.
Now you see the worthlessness that is my life.