On Moons and other stuff.

Time weighs heavy and yet people still dance to old routines. It would be nice to actually find someone "different" for a change, all the wrong echoes, all the wrong flags, and the blind following on the tail of the devil. M-O-O-N: that spells torture, a Chinese finger trap and a packet of fags, don't get smoke in your eye.

Junkies

People dance on the streets,
streets covered in shit and piss,
but they still dance all the same.
As the little bit they share

of fun and debauchery
course through their vain,
meanwhile just on the other side
people starve and beg for food.

The happiest people on earth
all have a reason to look away,
otherwise the front they've built would fall,
they wouldn't be as happy.

To truly see the pitiful eyes of the addict
begging for more change,
will make anyones heart quiver with pity.
So instead of looking

deep into their darkened ocular orbs, sharing that pain,
making that human connection for just one second,
it is easier to reach into pockets
paying off the junkies to walk away.

Junkies know and use this to their advantage, beggars
making sure to look into their darkened
empty souls, asking them to make a donation
to the nation of addiction and injections.

People dance, dance the pain away.
Needles drop on the ground, junkies
shooting away the day, trying to be
the happiest people on earth.

©Who_Leo All Rights Reserved

©Who_Leo All Rights Reserved

All Images Are © By Who_Leo May Not Be Used Or Shared.

Empty Seats

Every where I go
there are empty chairs in front of me
and no matter what I do
there is nothing that can change that fact

unless I spend my time with some junkie
unless I spend my time with some whores
unless I spend my time with another husk
of the people I used to know.

It's not so easy, to breathe freely.
"A lifetime of fucking things up,
all summed up in one determined flash."
No one wants to sit across from that.

Who wants to share my pain?
Who wants to share in my joy?
Who wants to share in the way I see the world?
Who would want to sit across for me at dinner,

starring deep into my eyes
as I complain that the carrots and the peas
make me feel like I could scream
at the top of my lungs FREE PALESTINE!

No one, at least no one I've met yet.
Each night I sit alone,
consuming the necessary protein
to survive another day

so that I may sit across from another
empty chair, mocking my intelligence
integrity, sanity, and reminding me of my negligence
when it comes to make friends.

On Lizards

She coils like a snake
shedding her skin habitually
leaving remains of who she was,
or rather pretends to be,
along with the carcasses
of those she's consumed,
eaten whole, swallowed,
perverted.

There is a glimmer in her blue eyes
every time her tongue sticks out
to sense the air around her,
tasting for a fix, hoping
to feel the warmth of the cold night.
A field of dust is laid before her
she crawls upon it with belly swollen,
the last victim of her bite.

She leaves trails behind
as her body moves, a straw,
clearing the powdery surface,
revealing beneath the rotten ground
kept from sight, hidden,
until her swift movements
clear a woven path visible
to those who dare pay attention
to the swollen mess that is left behind.

She coils around again,
having found comfort
upon the tiled bathroom floor
of a broken down house
with cracks on the walls
as it tries to hold up the sins of a past
which extends thousands of years.
Poe would have cried
at the sight of such visage.
Skin flakes, scales glow,
her long tongue sticks out into the night
as her brilliant mind is numbed away.

Good Ridance

I guess it's futile. You say I don't know my feelings, well I know my emotions well enough to be able to shut them off if needed be. Sadly, they are a sort of fuel, for living. I asked jim how you were. Because I have known him for many many years, and he's been like a father to me in many instances. You don't talk to me, you're cryptic, you push everyone away, and all I wanted was to know how you actually were. You claim that I am a pagan, but I don't worship anything, or anyone, or any names. I don't know where you get this shit from. I guess you must be high on some shit, which happens. I'm tired of talking to you and always getting illegible messages because you're too fucked up to type. This worries me. I don't want to worry about you, you're a grown woman who is killing herself. Not my fucking problem, and I'm sorry I made it so. Because I don't need your baggage. So I thank you for flipping out, because I didn't know how to push you away. I am sorry because of the human being that resides in you, but I can't let your shit get to me. As much as I want to help you, I cannot and shouldn't, for until you want to help yourself, there is no point. I don't know what else to say, but I hope you get well.

On depression

So the thing about depression is that you can never really leave it behind. No matter what you are doing there it is, no matter how hard you pretend there is always something hiding behind eyes that once ached to see the world which turns them towards the dark and only want to sleep. In fear of sounding like some over sensitive idiot I tend to stop writing mid sentence, but that's only because of a series of social stigmas implanted by schooling and television, ex's, people who often drift through your life, which dictate that expressing emotion is wrong and shouldn't be done. Well, sometimes we stop caring enough to actually put something down on paper, or a digital format to be viewed by others. Maybe to help, maybe to vent, or it could just be to help the ego.

It just hides back there, in the darkest little parts of the mind. Any moment and every moment you spend on your own is a moment it gets to reach out further into your soul(?) and pulls it apart. So far, 28 years have passed through me and each and every year since I recognized this, it keeps happening. Sometimes the happiness lasts enough to let me see some sort of opening ahead, but just then the depression comes back and drags me back into the bush, away from reason and the ability to contain one self. As of recent one thing had kept me going, and it was as selfish as it could be. Being selfish after all, is but a lingering string that lets us find the way out, or sometimes even deeper into the woods. It really does often feel as if there is nothing one can do, that this is an end of sorts.

Covering up the wounds has become second nature, smile at the passing professors, the fellow students. Every once in a while you run into others who are pretending just like you. Something calls you to them, there is an inherent need to be near them but... it's never going to go into fruition, damaged goods and damaged goods probably shouldn't be together. Then again, in the pit everything seems like a bad idea, even the best of things that could help one move forward in life. There is nothing like depression to bring you to a dead stop, literally.

Drugs. Never had any experience with anti-depressants except for one bout where a doctor prescribed some wellbutrin to help with the cigarettes. They didn't do very well, still smoked. Ended up dropping the meds, it just didn't feel right. Alcohol has always been a friend, although sometimes it seems like the kind of friend that is willing to stab you in the back at any moment, a real cunt. Cocaine and other "hard drugs" are just that, hard. It's like getting fucked in the ass by a large prison inmate. Feels great at the moment, you enjoy yourself and even cum a little, but afterwards you feel dirty, used, and like your ass is going to explode. It's a real fucking trip. Marijuana is the only thing that has helped to keep it leveled. It lets some happiness in, reminds you that it's alright. Too bad it's as illegal as it is around here, nothing like having the government tell you that you have to get their sanctioned anti-depressants which might kill you instead of smoking a plant which grows from the ground. And people wonder why I'm so fucking depressed.

I was about to write some great paragraph about how people can be there and help you but, it's all a fucking joke. People only make it worse, you start to depend on some cunt of a friend and next thing you know they are just another notch on the post of souls to be avoided. Real fucking hypocrites whose only need for you is to justify their existence, be it with words or my dick. There is nothing like fucking a corpse, someone you know is already dead or dying in the great scheme of your life. Good-bye, it was nice knowing you, don't mind the load I've left in your "tunnel of love." There is something wrong with me, and all I know is that I'm the only one who can deal with it. I'll stick to my drugs, to my loneliness, to a sort of conventional mind fuck trip, a trivial yet ergonomic existence with the way in which the world has treated me. A real fuck you to the stars and to the heavens. There is nothing holding me back, so I feel like I can do anything, even if it's writing about my sadness, depression, about the small moments that add up to nothing, about the love felt and ignored. Because no one is going to read this and thing "gee, he had a point." They'll only think "what a sap, glad he never made it."

Possibilities are endless, but tell that to a corpse.

In the moments between sleep

with the shades drawn and

allowing just glimmers of sunlit

reflections of an everlasting green

that seeps its way onto walls

well known and forgotten,

breaths escape from lips

which are too tired for anything or anyone.

In between the covers

there is a corpse,

or soon to be at least,

and as a mind winds down to moments

captured and preserved

in formaldehyde filled jars

stacked around the room,

the realization strikes

that these memories

just don't taste the way they used to,

a realization made

as this bed which was

kinder to passions untold

becomes a coffin

once the covers wrap around

to keep and swallow whole

in the warmth and knowledge

of being dead to the world.

Dead to SourGirl.

Second round of publications

This is my second time being published in the publication P'an Ku, a bi-yearly publication for Broward College.

Staying in bed, you sleepless insomniac.

One thing I never miss about depression is the complete and utter feeling of hopelessness attached to every facet of life. I know I must get over it, just thread through it. For some reason though, my brain keeps saying fuck all, just stay in bed, the day is going to suck and there is nothing you can do about it.

There is nothing you can do about it.

There is nothing you can do about it.

There is nothing you can do about it.

Luckily I'm a stubborn asshole, otherwise I would have stayed in bed today, and tomorrow, yesterday, all of my existence. Fuck you brain, you suck with your "feelings" and emotional baggage that always seems to pop open during these times. Next question is, just how long will this feeling last this time?

Burnt Marshmallow

"Wretched night" are the words that escape his lips. Walking through the back alleys of the town, garbage lines the side of the buildings, some of it is made up like homes for the indigents and lost. Each step gets heavier and heavier with the passing of time, he needs his fix. Finally at his destination, a man in baggy clothes and baseball cap with shinny stickers on it looks him over.

"What will it be?" He knows his costumers by the visage of death drawn upon their beings.

"I just need the usual... It's been a long night." A stack of singles and fives is passed from one to the other, and as soon as it is counted a bag containing tiny blue pills is exchanged.

"See you soon."

----

When he gets back to his apartment she is waiting on the dirty old couch, a thing full of smells and stains that remark the past 2 years as if they'd been decades. Her thin lips are dry and chalked, a crust under her nose and bags under the eyes makes it hard to remember what she looked like before it all started. He puts his coat on the back of the door, and crunching past plastic cups and caps that litter the hallway he scratches at his head. Thin arms and even thinner wrists still manage to gather the tools of their addiction. Straws, tin foil, and a couple of lighters of which he can't recall if they are dead or not.

"What took so long?" she asks as her head wobbles, trying to sit up. He makes room for himself on the edge of the couch as he clears some of the table by tossing a heap of garbage to the floor.

"I was just thinking, maybe we ought to get out of here soon. I mean, like... get out of here, this town, start new somewhere else." He opens the baggie and takes two pills out, rips two pieces of tinfoil, and passes one of each to her. She grabs a straw and lighter just as he does and places the pill on the metallic surface. With the straw in her mouth she begins to burn the underside of the tinfoil, a smoldering crackling is emitted from the pill as it heats up and starts to smoke, she suctions the white smoke as the smell of burnt marshmallow fills the room. He follows suit.

As the pill melts, it moves on the tinfoil, making a dark spiral as it travels on the surface of the heated metal. Their lungs absorbing the opiate and eyes widening, this is what their life has become. After two more pills they lay back and hold one another.

"I think it would be a good idea." Her hair is oily from lack of washing, she tucks it behind her ears. Pimples are sprouting like mountains across her unwashed face. When was the last time they washed? They can't remember, the bathroom is only used to defecate once every couple of days, and maybe to throw up in more often than anything else. The shower is seldom used. "I'm tired of this place, the people are horrible."

Sustaining his head like a helium balloon that has grown too heavy, he comes in and out of consciousnesses unable to talk. They both fall asleep on the couch.

-----

Sunlight. It's warmth is heating up their faces, it awakens him. She's still asleep. Getting up he feels his bones crack, falling asleep on the couch is no good for them, but he doesn't notice after a fix or two. Once in the kitchen he pours himself some water in a cup that's been sitting by the sink for who knows how many days, weeks even. After gulping it down he opens the fridge to find it empty. The last of the food stamp money had been spent on their current stash, selling them had become yet another habit meant to sustain their addiction. He serves more water and drinks it down.

Sitting on the couch he sets up another piece of tinfoil, the roll is still new and has quite a bit of the shinny paper on it. He shakes the lighter to make sure it's still got fuel, placing another pill on top he lights up. She awakens as he blows smoke on her face.

"What... oh... here..." she grabs for the paper and straw as he lights it for her. This is how every morning is spent.

"We need more money, we'll be out by tonight." His voice shakes a little, she knows what he meas.

"Alright, I'll call Hue. I'm sure he could use some release." She inhales, and holds it. Again, burnt marshmallows fill the air.

-----

She's dressed up, unshowered, but dressed up. Her skinny legs are nothing like they used to be. Once upon a time she ran every morning before going to work at the restaurant, her figure was envied, her beauty was obscene. Every man wanted her, and she knew it. Now she's just another corpse walking the street.

"Hue is coming soon, you'll have to go wait outside. Can you head over to John's and see if he can hook us up with some pot? Tell him he can come by for the money later." She's applying lipstick to her chapped lips, a bit of eye shadow, and some flush takes away the look of death. She almost looks normal, but there is something about addiction you can never hide.

"Alright." It's all he says. He gets up and walks to the door, grabs his jacket and just as he's about to close the door she says to him:

"I love you!"

"I love you too babe... call John's when you are done." He walks down the stairs and runs into Hue, he's a tall blonde man, wearing glasses as usual. He's married, but likes to get his kicks elsewhere just like everyone else. He's never asked her just what he does that he has to go somewhere else to find it besides home, he doesn't care. Hue doesn't know who he is.

-----

John's house is five minutes from the apartment, it is an old house filled with old newspapers and an array of stuff which could be easily thrown out, but John just can't seem to part with it. It reminds him of his parent's, he says. They saved all of this stuff, and now it just happened to be his watch over it, having them both gone this was the only thing they'd left behind. A house full of garbage. He knocks on the door.

"Come on in!" John screams from within. Opening the door with his think fingers, he hears the rustling of the dog as it's running towards the door. It's an old pit bull with barely any teeth left, a very lovable old dog.

"So what's up?" John is rolling a blunt, he always has pot.

"Not much, Lucy is working a job so I thought I'd come by."

"I see..." He knew what this meant, but didn't say anything. Lucy wasn't a stranger to him by any means, even shut in pot heads need to get their rocks off every once in a while.

"Hey, do you think you can front us some of that pot? Lucy will have the money for you tonight, you can just come back with me and she'll have it for you."

"Alright, not a problem." Lighting the blunt makes the room fill with smoke almost instantly, maybe it wouldn't happen so fast if there wasn't so much shit in there, air circulation might be better, but tell that to John, he'd only say that it's his house and he'll do as he pleases. He's right though, no one should be telling someone how to live their lives.

-----

The phone rings, it's Lucy.

"Yeah, I'm all done over here, you guys can come through if you want."

"Sure, we'll be right there."

-----

She's back in her regular clothes, her face is still flushed even though there is no make up on it. Her lipstick is a bit smeared, and her hair looks kind of clumpy. She's smoking a pill as the two of them walk into the living room, seems like Hue left her a tip, there is a bag with a nice stash of pills by her side of the table. This is good, he wont have to go out tonight to re up. John takes a seat on a metal chair across from them, tossing a baggie of pot on the table.

"Twenty five please."

"Here you go." She puts down her utensils and reaches into her pocket, pulling out a small wad of bills. He accepts the money and pulls out a pre rolled joint, lighting it he winks at her and she smiles.

"So what is up for tonight?" John takes a couple of puffs and passes the joint to Lucy.

"Oh I don't know, thinking we are going to stay in and maybe watch some Fifth Element." Her voice seems raspy, maybe it's all the smoking.

"I was thinking we could get some groceries, the fridge is kind of empty." He takes the joint from Lucy and inhales a large hit, coughing as if his lungs were trying to escape years of torture and abuse.

"Easy old man, you can't take those big hits with this stuff." John takes the joint from him and puffs at it. "I can give you guys a ride to the market if you need, I could use some supplies myself."

"Sounds good, now that we have a little bit of cash it sounds like a good idea." She lights the tinfoil, and sucks in more of the burnt marshmallow.

-----

It's been three days since Hue came around, and they needed more money. Lucy went to walk the streets for a little while, he stayed at home trying to figure out who he could rob and how to make a quick buck.

Lucy comes in a couple of hours later, her dress is a bit ripped, and there is something dripping from between her legs. She doesn't say anything as she passes by him on the couch, she throws a wad of bills on the table and heads straight to the bathroom. He hears the shower go on. He grabs one of the last pills and lights it up.

"Hey, Steve!" She screams from the shower. "Can you head down to T's and pick up some more blues?"

"Sure thing babe."

-----

The alley hasn't changed much, a couple of bums are fighting over the contents of a garbage can as he passes them, they don't even notice him. Shadows seem to elongate and compress, the wind is blowing and there is little to no fresh smell, it's a stink of decay that seems to linger in the inner city. Shivering from the cold he crosses to the other side of the alley where T is usually hanging out this time of night, but he's not there. Instead there is another dealer, he's seen him before. Tall and dark, with an over sized coat on, gold teeth, and a fuck you look to him.

"What you need boy?"

"Umm... where is T?"

"He ain't here... now you need somethin' or not?"

"Yeah, I need two hundred worth..."

"Aight..." He reaches in his jacket and pulls out 4 baggies, each with 5 pills in it.

"Cool cool..." He hands the money and takes the bags. "Catch you around."

"Yeah, whatever."

-----

Back in the apartment she's smoking the last pill from the last stash. There are a few bills left on the table, and the aluminum roll is growing thin. He walks in and plops next to her, setting the bags of pills on the table as he does so.

"We really need to get out of here..." He says, but just as he does she kisses him and exhales into his mouth. The hit makes him feel light headed, he forgets what he was talking about.

"You just need some more of this..." She rips some foil for him, opens a baggie, and sets up a fix for him. "Come on, smoke some and fuck me."

He get's high, he doesn't fuck her, his dick can't get up after he smokes the pills. They both pass out on the couch as the sun begins to rise on the horizon.

In one second

In a second a lot can happen
death
life
hello
goodbye
people fall in love
out of love
an argument starts
a war ends
all in one second.

It's all it took for her to say
good-bye
it's all it took to feel
that all familiar pain
void
tightness
revolting feeling.

One second.
Then why does it seem
like an eternity?

Amber Stains

Long slender fingers caress the metal shaft, it's cool surface slowly warms up with the touch of the body. Well manicured nails, no dirt underneath, cuticles pushed back,a clear coat of nail polish, all make every movement seem so well thought and placed as if they'd done this a thousand times before. They open up a small baggie laying next to her kit, just a dash is poured onto the bent spoon. Those slender fingers now screw the needle onto the metal shaft, the surgical steel that once felt so alien, now feels inviting and welcoming, the mind travels back to an amniotic past where nothing seemed like it was, you could say everything was rosy.

With one pull of the plunger, a bit of water is sucked in. It is then meticulously poured onto the pink/brown powder in her spoon. One hand carefully holds the spoon now, while the other uses a lighter underneath it. It bubbles after a short time, after which she uses the needle to mix it in. Once the consistency seems proper, she pulls on the plunger to suck in all of the amniotic fluid from the spoon into the syringes' shaft. Now she can relax, as the hardest part is over and done with. Putting away all of her tools, she leaves out only the rubber tourniquet and syringe.

She walks to the kitchen for a drink of water, the glasses are just above the dish washer, there's a bottle of Perrier inside the fridge which she keeps stocked with tequila and beer. She serves herself a cup and sips at it slowly. On her way back to the bedroom she stops at her iMac where she turns on some music to lead her on her little journey. She first has to minimize the report she's been working on, not many people are able to understand the happenings of third world villages much less actualize a plan to keep a grand majority of them fed. Though she'd had enough of that for today, now it was time to forget about everything.

Music starts up slow, it's a mix of tunes ranging from The Velvet Underground to Devendra Banhart.

Now in her bedroom her slender fingers grab onto the rubber tourniquet as they wrap the loose rubber around her left upper arm and tighten it up, teeth holding on to loose pieces keeping a tight bind. Arm outstretched she slaps the inside of her elbow to pop out the veins. Once they are out well enough she grabs her syringe. At first she breaths in slow and heavy getting the syringe positioned just right. Her mouth waters as a thousand thoughts start to pour through her head of all the men that have been there but left, of the children she's had to hold in her arms to console from their hunger, from their sickness. Her co-workers who are still out there fighting the good fight, fighting for the less fortunate, of the ones who have died for the cause. She pulls on the plunger to make sure she's in the vein, the amber red liquid spurts into the chamber of her syringe. Red viscous blood which she can now see through a small glass window on the side slowly mixes in with her heroin concoction, creating a beautiful spiral of herself and the soon to be amniotic escape. She pushes the plunger in, a slow steady flow.

At first she feels little, her head is still swimming with memories, of the faces, the lovers, the people she's left behind. Everything encumbers her so, but it will all be forgotten soon enough. Pulling out the needle, and releasing the tourniquet, a warm rush goes straight to her head. A numbing feeling in the back of her skull, a tingling, spreading a warmth over her entire body. She puts the now empty chamber on her night table, as soon as it's metal body clinks against the wooden surface so does she collapse onto her bed. Blonde hair spread out around her head like a halo. White slender figure against her dark sheets accentuates the curves of her body. Now her mind is blank, there is nothing going on that could ever stop her from feeling this way. Her body gives itself fully to the heroin which makes it's way and embeds itself onto her brain. Opioid receptors light up as her own thoughts and emotions are shut down.

Nothing matters, everything is meaningless. Only thing that's real right now is this feeling like being on the clouds. Her high makes everything ok. She's not thinking about the children, about the faces of the damned. Her only thought is "God I wish I could get fucked right now." One hand reaches into her pants, she feels her wet pussy, soaking her slender fingers as she feels herself inside and out remembering the last man she was with, his hard throbbing cock inside of her all the way to her cervix, exploding orgasms, the way he caressed and kissed her. Her brain is too fucked up and there's only so much she can do for herself right now. Those slender fingers leave a wet trail from her crotch up to her breasts as she caresses herself before passing out from her drugged out self induced state.

In her dreams she's living inside a large house, with servants who do her every will and capricious desire. Her husband is a powerful and rich ambassador who shows her around like a prized dog, with their cat about and a chauffeur wearing a silly hat they drive around town to see the sights and to be seen. She doesn't have to worry about spending her money, nor does she have to worry about having to do anything for herself. Everything is already taken care of. She goes to parties where women wear dresses worth thousands of dollars that will never see the light of day again, and enough jewelry to feed a village for a lifetime. But she doesn't care anymore, she has her dream.

Her visions perpetuate here for a while, but end up in darkness eventually as the drug fully takes on. Her sleep is deep and constant, at least until her amniotic wet dream wears off. For now though, her ethereal self is swimming about in the abyss of her subconscious. Waiting to wake up, waiting to forget all over again.

Try Try Try

It's days like today which make me wish I was able to just go, to get up and move away from here. These four walls, the lack of privacy, the unstable home situation. It tears at my inner psyche, I'm unable to cope because I'm unable to care for myself at the moment. Without work, without a bright light at the end of this tunnel, what am I to do? I feel ill, physically as well as mentally. I don't want to be tied down like this anymore, but there is no other way for me. My creativity is at an all time low, I blame it on the lack of "alone" time. I am always surrounded by someone, be it my sister or my mother, they are about at all times. Feeling ostigated with their presence I wonder if they feel the same about me, and if they want me gone as badly as I want to be gone. When will they know that I left a long time ago? That mentally I have tried to be away from them for so long. I sometimes don't understand these things, though I do know that what I do is because it makes me feel better, it allows for me to be somewhere else entirely. I often wish that things would be different, that I could take care of myself, that I had my own place, maybe then my family and I would get along better.

She came back into mind again. I met someone this past weekend, someone who reminded me a lot of her. Blond, thin, with a bag full of pills, and a care free attitude. I knew to stay away from the moment I laid eyes on her, sour girls are not something I want to be hanging around with. Other than that the festival went well. I met someone who I thought was really nice, but they may never know because I didn't say so. It was one of the volunteers, brunette, nice figure, and a go get 'em sense of being that I enjoyed. Too bad I was too busy making sure things were ok to do anything about it, to chat her up and say more than just hello. I'm such an idiot sometimes. What I hate the most is feeling alone, especially when I'm surrounded by people.

Momentary Lapse of Reason

Do you have to be happy to write something about happiness? As a writer I should be able to, but without it in my life I am unable to conjure exactly what it is. Some things come easy, because you see it in movies and read about it in the newspapers and books. Something like happiness though, it is quite hard to discern just what is true happiness for the self, unless it's in front of your face. Happiness has become one of the hardest things to find, not because of lack of trying, but rather indignant behaviors that devour the self disallowing the continuance of happiness found, drowning it out without giving it a fair chance. This is what I'm afraid of. That the cycle will continue, though knowing about these sort of things should help me become more aware of what I'm doing and how to not be so hard on myself as well as others. Happiness. How am I supposed to write about it if all I keep learning about is brokenhearted truths.

It's just the way life is I guess.

My head is up in the clouds

These past few weeks I've had a lot on my mind. One thing in particular has bothered me quite a bit. Thing is that after I've spent years, and I mean YEARS, talking to my friends about not doing prescription medicines as a form of "getting high," I am now prescribed to them. It's weird how the world works. Nothing else eases the pain though, what else am I supposed to do? Pot is not legal where I live, hence I am unable to acquire it. Only thing that is left for me to do is to take those little white pills, and wait for the pain to subside.

I've lost my footing. I was doing real well there for a while, being the person which people came to to talk about getting off the stuff, and how to live without it. Now, it's not so easy to face them and tell them that I am officially consuming these substances as well. Granted, I have a doctors note, and a legitimate reason to take them, but I still feel like there is no more liability on what I say.

I can say this, that I still don't want to see any of the people whom I care for get involved with these drugs, I don't want to be on them either. They make me sleepy, dopey, and numb out more than just my aching back. My mind has suffered, my social interaction has suffered even more because of it. It has made me into a zombie of sorts. I hate it.

Now I wait for a series of surgeries which will hopefully return me to a more mobile state, able to work and fend for myself, I'll finally be able to get out of moms house... again. Really shitty part is that I came here to keep her company about 2 years ago, then the accident happened, and a short stay has turned into an undetermined amount of time. Without being able to work for this time, I've managed to rack up some bills, and lost some people. But what am I gonna do? That is life, and I guess I must live it the way it was dealt to me. Still, no reason to not want more out of it. I do want to do a lot of things still, like see Ireland, England, visit my friend in Japan... All of these things, I must keep in mind. Something to live for. I lost that for a minute there, and it was scary.

w_l

Mitigation in my mind

Days like today, nothing matters.

I feel dead, tired, over worked.

Yet, nothing has happened.

Nothing, again.

If one expects change, one should create it. Right?

Every time I deal with the world,

The world bites back.

Every time I deal with people,

I see the ugly faces pop up again and again.

Addiction,

Sexual,

Or chemical,

It's all the same really.

A need for people to forget.

I keep running into these two demons,

Over and over again.

All I want is some peace of mind,

Knowing that you wont walk away

To get high on dope

Or be with someone else.

Just be there

As I would for you.

But no

It's never like that.

There are always preconceptions

Of notions meant to alleviate your "pain."

Don't you know though,

That through your actions

You end up hurting everyone around you?

Here I am,

Another day with nothing to do.

I'm a little glad,

Somewhat sad,

But still I'm here

And there is nothing pulling me down

Except me.

Slow month is slow

It's been a slow month. Guess video games have been taking up a lot of my time. Theres nothing else to do at the moment, I think I may have already talked about this on here, but whatever.

My desktop has a bunch of alt art pictures that are always rotating, I kind of wish I could be as awesome at drawing as these people seem to be. I can't even draw stick figures right.

If you want to know more about Alt-Art, click HERE