Sunday, February 22, 2015

Tears For ODB, drug-induced poetry. Whats the use? Strung out from the drug abuse. Woe is me.

Today was especially...eventful.
Where should I begin? Today I killed a man. Not with my bare hands mind you, but with my words. I used to be an avid believer in the phrase actions speak louder than words but that cannot be true.
Two days ago a letter was delivered to my flat saying nothing but three words signed by Robert Smith and a blue fingerprint. I thought it was strange, I no longer receive fan mail, not personally anyway, and if is sent then it isn't sent to this address. The letter reads "You Did This". I should have thrown the letter away and though nothing of it, but I couldn't.

You Did This is a song I wrote before people knew my name, before people listened to what I had to say. I wrote it in pure spite. I wrote it to the person I thought would be the person I wold spend the rest of my life with. I was too young I admit but that isn't why she quit being my bride to be. She miscarried and we blamed each other. Me for my unhealthy habits and unsafe environment and her for being the conduit for our unborn baby's demise. You Did This was me blaming her, and if I'm being honest, I never apologized and told her its not wasn't her fault.

But I have never heard the name Robert Smith. I was taken by storm when I turned on the television and saw a man with the same name painted in all blue looking down at his death. Looking down like he was searching for forgiveness. That's why I went into the city, without my glasses, without any disguise. I wanted this man to see him, I wanted to know who he was, and I wanted him to see me..I knew people saw me, some people followed me, one persistent gentleman in particular. But I didn't look back, at him, I didn't look at anyone because I was only interested in seeing his face. But alas, I was too late. All I could hear when I arrived was 'he jumped, he jumped!' Eventful is the only way I could describe today. Corrupt.

Monday, February 9, 2015

Spinning in circles, live my life without rehearsal.

I will be short. I will be frank. Nothing good can come of walking at night. Nothing. The people of Dreamwood failed to inform me that there is a big ass hole that apparently anyone can fall into. I'm sure you can tell I'm just a little perturbed. That's because all I have to show for this week are two sprained ankles. One thing that I've begun to realize about Dreamwood is that you are, well off or not, on your own. You are alone here. I realized that when just the nicest fellow walked by my untimely grave to insult me. In hindsight, he was making conversation but I wasn't in the mood for conversing. This man who, to me, could very easily be a meth user had the most bullshit accent I've heard in my lifetime. It was like he was trying to convince himself that we was something other than the person he knows himself to be. I cannot tell you why we would do that, perhaps because with two identities you are less alone. If that were true, I wouldn't feel so alone. Even now that I'm out of frying pan..which I've just decided to call if from now on, in part because of its temperature but more to the allusion to the expression "out of the fire into the frying pan".. sitting here writing this, I am strangely alone. I'm afraid I'll get used to it. I don't want the loneliness to define me as it has the other tenants of Dreamwood. In comparison, I am just a visitor.

Perhaps I will add more, depending on how much time I have to spend in the hospital. But the morphine I forced the nurses to give me are making me just the slightest bit tired, and I'm tired of being conscious.