All those days of childhood laughter passed, you sat in a dark room, as your wings molted much too fast.
Life may never have been perfect, with a daddy missing while your mother wept. and her pills, within reach.
You bled your tears on an open page like the walls you used to cover in scribbles and paint.
You’ve found your art, it was your release. When with a page full of thoughts, you drifted to sleep.
As an elderly boy of fourteen.
Life gets harder while you grow up. You miss heaven’s beauty while you’re looking at the ground, can’t think of tomorrow when you’re stuck in the now, then you escape in bottles and riz, you find a tiny little moment of forget bliss. And things aren’t so bad.
Life seems to lose all simplicity when your body’s in your twenties but your mind’s nineteen, with sudden dreams you get memories of your mother hiding from your stepdaddy,
And her telling you, that it’s okay. Tomorrow
we’ll be on our way.
And through it all, the sleeplessness would stay, you’d still lie awake until the moon would fade. And the grey of day you’d find that another twenty pages bled from your mind.
Your stories got you to sleep.
Your stories delved your dreams.
In time one or two more broken hearts drove you to just seeking some memory loss.
And you know there’s a shortcut.
with one cup of water and one or four pills, you reached the heaven of oblivion.
Where you found what you wanted: Nothing.
And perscription and addiction took your body and your soul, and you found yourself in that darkened hole, that nothing you wanted was now all you had, you lost your way on such a very numb path.
And it took three years and a major break down and a mother nearly cracking to bring you around,
and you knew times had changed. Coming down from blackness brought the passion again, the heart of your mind was bleeding again.
All along the pills were you’re enemy, while you couldn’t sleep you were creating beauty.
Your art and your pain were one and the same, brought on by the blood that was your heritage.
And your pages were all full of red, your fingers sticky, where you bled
On a mother and a lover
and everyone that had to take your shit while you lost your mind trying to save it.
The coping mechanism has always been the cure.
Three days awake gave you your best literature.
Twenty four, will be better.
lucklacker 