The Last Independent Break (#6)

So, Gabby and I have been at this for a minute, and she and I agree the time has come to work on this as a book and not a blog. Kind of a perk when you run an indie publishing company with a badass name, Mind Shrapnel. Should check it out…

Fake paperback cover by John Duillo from MAN'S DARING, January 1965-8x6

I’m struggling to add 1+1, because subtraction is a mean mother fucker,
Always butting in, forcing nothing into my reality
I’m turning violent on the inside
My intentions are shifting from genuine to that of the misguided masses
Life is proving to be meaningless…again
People seem comfortable existing in the lie
Naked flesh my edification because love is making promises she can’t keep
Maybe I’m chasing an illusion, maybe my perversions feed my self-destruction?
A needed flip on of the pain switch, zero.
Zero. Nothing.
So I need anything, something to jar my senses into feeling
Shakespeare may be proud of this modern tragedy-
Where hurt blooms beauty, where joy wilts in the crowding darkness
Always wanting her back after she closes the door on us
Impeccable timing in hindsight, I find so much crawling on the filthy floor
A scrap of  nourishment…
An angel looking for her wings…
Oh fuck, here we go again…

The falling away of the masses is very much prevalent in my life
When I speak of masses I mean masses of memories
Trying to run them out of my own mind
Distinguishing the truth from false
Reality from fantasy
Who exactly was that man I let ruin me ?
And who exactly am I? The woman that I presented to him?
Two very much broken people trying to mend each other
Pretending to be whole separately.
I skated through my life with constant waves goodbyes and sudden hello’s
‘How are you’s’ that I never cared about
From which he always seemed to stay present in his
Yet absent from attachment to the bigger picture
I chased a weak rabbit down its hole and fell completely face first
In my own fate
Whose fault is it anyway ?
By any means should I take full responsibility,
Stuffing the narcotics down
Dousing myself in vodka again.
But here I sit.
Contemplating my old, awful decisions, as usual.
In the white room, on my single bed,
In my gripped hospital socks, I sit thinking about him and mostly me,
That this is ending now.
I’m hoping for good and glory.

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