Nothing to chew through except our own lips

This week I will be grateful . . .

This week I will be grateful . . .

Yeah, that’s this week.

I can do that, I bet . . .

It’s Monday again.

Time to start again.

Another seven days came and went.

168 of our hours were spent.

How did we spend them?

A slave to the wheel?

A secret heel?

Attempting to climb out of hell,

While demons bite at our heels?

This is not how we heal.

But this is how too many of us feel.

Therapy doesn’t work anymore.

It’s a business now.

Russian roulette with our minds.

And pills make us numb.

We drink because it’s supposed to be fun.

And we dye our hair,

Like a new look will fix something.

We get a tattoo;

Something new;

With nothing to chew through except our own lips.

When did the script flip . . .?

Goddammit kid!

When did the script flip?

Weren’t we supposed to be grateful this week?

Thirty seconds in and we are already hateful.

And at 32 my mom still asks for my Christmas list,

Like Christmas still has magic in it;

Like I am still just a kid;

And not a man now;

But,

She never did understand how a boy becomes a man.

No . . . she never did understand . . .

It is true, though, that I do have things to be grateful for,

Like all my support;

Like my dog and my home;

Like a few fans who buy my books;

And I am still a handsome motherfucker, I still have my looks.

I still have some of my health . . . I can still walk, at least.

And I can still fight if I have to.

And it’s looking like I’ll have to soon.

Because I am still broke.

I dream dope,

And hold on to a millimeter of hope.

And I climb out of my hell.

While the demons bite at my heels.

At least I can still feel . . .

At least she made me feel something real . . .

At least I am still a coward . . .

At least that's familiar—comfortable . . .

At least I can lay in bed in my little bubble,

And read books;

And watch shows;

And scroll through my phone.

At least I can still bleed.

At least I can still dream.

At least I have beautiful friends.

And at least I’m not close to the end.

At least I can pretend to begin again . . .

I am grateful for all of that,

And so much more.

The present doesn’t feel like all the times before . . .

I am grateful I can still type.

But I can’t stand that I wasn’t her type . . .

And I can’t stand it when someone reads me and then gets hyped;

As if I’ll be successful from this shit;

As if I’ll make any money from it;

As if people will respect it;

As if every line, every poem, every page, every book, isn’t me leaving a piece of my soul behind . . .

As if it doesn’t cost me anything to crack open my skull and let you peak at my mind.

. . . No

I am sorry.

I apologize.

I am grateful for my gifts

And I am blessed and burdened with it

Blessed and burdened with gifts . . .

. . . Nothing to chew through except our own lips . . .

When did the script flip?

Goddammit kid,

When did the script flip?

CH 11/25/24