The Dock
April 17, 2017

My first time seeing clearly,
yet the way is flooded,
waiting too late:
this is my punishment.
Scared of sobriety,
a wallow of worries will wash onto any surface below sea level, so that is my excuse for being high.
I arrived for betterment.
There was advancement in the plan,
but all I've seen is a deficit.
Immature by choice.
Isolated by accident,
in fear of seeing tools compared to my toys.
My poise is nothing but a decoy.
Attempts to deploy have reached nothing.
Do I not posses the talons of talent to grasp concepts?
Must I submit to starvation
and decay into a relapse-
been set back by my own doings.
I want to speak but I choke too much on what I breathe to be fluent.
Opening up to orate, the wind is too fast,
left behind by the cast of a speeding-paced wall silencing anymore opportunity.
Success is never congruent to my crossing.
Even the intrusive water recedes away when I come near-
I must be toxic.
I've filled my body with too many narcotics
to cooperate with tasks determined to be completed.
Desires to cleanse this ground of artificial coats of substances, much like what I deal with,
aren't met-
maybe it's best to give back by being beneath it.
But would my body of poor treatment be of any use to the already abused?
I'm inclined to disappear.
My mind has been too clouded,
The preceding of shrouding thoughts justified the coughs.
I fought fire with fire,
now I'm twice as insane.
Ashamed,
I thought the time had come for a vivid gaze,
yet I'm just now understanding of my grander, blindly, enclosed cage.
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