Forgetting the Present

Wiping it away

the regret

mistakes of yesterday


I thought I was someone


I thought I was worthy

of all life could bring

but no.

It’s strange

strange to see that the drugs aren’t enough

strange to feel my own soul melting from the bone


If I just found the urge to move

to get up

prepared to lose

but prepared nonetheless.


Does It Need to Make Sense?

High as hell

lower than heaven

the light’s blurring

the light’s changing

it’s all in the signs

that’s what I keep telling myself

these signs

these lights

my mind-

I’m numb to the stupidity that surrounds me

numb to it

to everything-

driving around

high as hell

waiting for the signals to change

and change

and change

and back to normal once again.

It’s Not Sad It’s

I can’t remember the last time

I put pen to paper

paper to pen

and so on.

Memories, they’re funny

they always find a way to remind you you’re not doing enough

you’re not doing as much

they’re cruel.

I don’t know when I decided to give up

it didn’t strike me as such

living it

breathing within it.

I’d still like to call myself an artist

although some would disagree

some would

I probably would


I thought this feeling would pass

I thought it would disappear

I thought I’d return to reality and feel as though I’d missed nothing


See, I can’t remember the last time I put pen to paper

paper to pen

creativity pulsating through my veins

it would be wonderful to become that person again.



Useless but Here Anyway

In the depths of something

I can’t quite explain

I can’t quite-

why can I never finish anything?

My pen hits the page

my mind hits the pavement

as conversation catches a lift from a nearby taxi

it’s gone

the words I thought I’d use

and the words I-

repetition has a funny way of convincing me that I can actually write

what foolish lies

what foolish-

you see?

This meant nothing

not now that I’ve finished and the joint’s lit-

what’s my name?

The First I Wrote at Last

It gets darker

as the writing worsens

and the words leave no echo after they’ve sprayed themselves out onto the page.

Some call it a “comedown”

but that would imply that the mind has fallen from great bliss

that’s not the case

the case is-

does anyone really want to know?

As the fat slips over my thighs like perfectly sized jeans

I can’t help but think I’m enjoying this.

My Friend

It’s not-

what I mean is-


I’m just-



and I’m trying to get away

I’m trying to escape

but what if-

what’s stopping me from leaving?

Surely it’s…


there’s nothing left here

nothing that begs me to stay

and it’s not-

what I meant to say is-

do you see-

I’m tired

explanations circle around my mind

and I’m tired

I’m exhausted


emptiness isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.