Great-grandad went mad, he was totally tweaked
He wore the same suit every day of the week
And I asked how it feels to be such a freak
And he said, “You tell me, son”
And that must be where I get it from
Forever smiling through
tears while I listen to Elliott.
that war, both joyful and upset.
That now familiar voice that sings,
touching somewhere deep inside
Broaching subjects I always
had trouble trying to confide.
The empty space in my heart
that once housed inspiration.
Now aches for the lonely
that reside in alienation.
But those precious notes
bring about an odd sense of comfort.
Knowing I’m not the only one
who’s made vain attempts to ease the hurt.
So I lay and continue to pray
that he’s no longer in pain.
Like the sick and sad infection
that overtakes my brain.
Crank up the music that
drowns out the unwanted noise.
Concentrate on what I can
relate to, the lyrics that get me through.
All the hell I deal with
every time I’m back in the hospital.
Though I’m happy to say I finally
threw away the opiate bottles.
Still to face the needles and
uncertainty this condition brings.
I while away the painful
days while Elliott quietly sings.
Thank you, Elliott, for what you’ve done for me.
You inspired me to come out of hiding and sing.
Not with my vocal cords but through paper and pen.
And oh, what a beautiful and saddening trip it’s been.
And still is.
"You’re fucked up."
“You’re screwed up.”
“You need to shut up.”
” Everyone is fed up.”
"You need help. "
“You better quit hurting yourself.”
Do no harm?
Talk about preaching to the choir.
Because hands that create verse,
to relate, to appreciate, for better or worse.
Also reacts then enacts, with potent ire,
Whenever self-loathing decides to converse,
to eradicate any source of laughter or warmth.
I’ve been sleepwalking through this haze.
Motivation and ambition long lost the race.
Paled by exhaustion and a growing distaste,
with my own reluctance to silence self-hate.
Ruled by indecision and eroding pride.
Cant ever be disappointed if I just never try.
I’m bound to go far with such a shitty attitude.
I fell over the edge again; I’m royally screwed.
Do all the harm
To me, myself, and mine.
Submitting to the Methadone phase
or supplementing a Morphine glaze
to coincide with a Fentanyl patch daze
The opiate stew to chemically displace.
With hands tired and afraid,
I erected the damn barricade.
Only to smash it, accepting defeat,
and rendered salvation obsolete.
My own place erased.
I’d love to distance myself,
enough so I can dissect the pain.
But old wounds retaliate;
I’m too confused to place the blame.
All that swims to the surface,
everything I’ve chosen to deny.
The essence of it still
has the power to paralyze me,
though I’m not altogether sure why.
Fear has replaced logic,
yes, that’s me you see curled on the floor.
Disassociation hastens as
apathy takes the front seat;
I could try to fight it,
but what in the hell for?
Wrote this while listening to 2:45AM.
Specifically what I’ve written while listening to Elliott. I hesitate to do so, because this isn’t meant to be a personal blog, but it wouldn’t necessarily be irrelevant to post what he inspired me to write.