I'm falling...it seems like there is no end to the tunnel I'm falling down. I'm not scared, I'm more interested in what will happen when I hit the bottom. What will death be like? Will it be like a dreamless sleep? Will I be judged at the Pearly gates? Will I burn in hell? What will become of the matter that makes me, me?
I'm falling, and flying, now I'm scared, where will I land? Who will I end up with, and what will I end up with? Is my heart going to be broken? Will the only person I love die, and leave me behind? Will Heroin stop taking away my fear? Will my tolerance kill me, will I die before my parents, and in turn killing them?
I want a breeze that smells like lilacs to come over me. I want to close my eyes, and feel an inner peace, a peace nobody can take away from me. I want to find Nirvana. I want the grass to be green and tall, with flowers everywhere. I want to sit in the tall grass, smelling the breeze, feeling the elusive happiness forever. I want to look into the abyss and get lost forever.
My words on paper, on screen, I want them to be read, and felt. I don't want to wash away, without being remembered.
Will I point a gun at someones head, will their blood be on my hands and face? what would it feel like? Will a gun be pointed at my head, and the trigger pulled, bang I'm dead. Will paranoia take over and will I be afraid of ever noun?
I want to smoke my cigarettes, and watch the sun set over the Atlantic Ocean, while it pouring rain. I want to be so skinny I'm a bag of bones. I want veins that stick out, ripe waiting to be punctured. Waiting to be severed. I want, I want, I want..........and the narcassim grows, deeper and deeper inside. I feel more and more guilty, until I can't stand it. Vanity kept me from writing, when I lost my vanity, I turned to words. I was never the most beautiful female, and my words will never be the most beautiful.
Lust comes over me, and I cry myself to sleep, and I go to my old haunts, wanting, wishing, praying, stopping, and now I can't feel it. Now I'm too numb, to be alive, to feel the most intense pain, is what makes the most beautiful words cum out of my head, and jump onto a page, and methadone keeps me too numb to write. I need the sick, high, sick, high, emotional rollercoaster to write like a wounded soul. To burn your heart with my words, to sear my words into your head, its all I want.
Its time for my confession, Its the hour of my sleep, and there is a voice within me, waiting to scream, until deaths comes to take me away from the words. To take me away form the love of my life. Death are you welcome, or shall I fear you like a title wave? I can smell the salt water, and I know sharks swim beneath me, and death is at my door.
I hate this post, but I will post it.