I called her all types of names under the sun. I know that we are done as the voices screech. I try to preach the sermon, but in my head, the voices say you sound like Pee Wee Herman.
I tried to laugh off the pain, but some called me a goofball and called them something. I don’t remember what I texted; I just know I was trying to flex my huge petro muscles, and I didn’t put my ego and pride aside.
I have been through a bad relationship that tore me into a new black hole…..that sucks in the damaging gamma rays to collect the dark energy I display. I am nothing but a molecule and a speck I didn’t know how to relate.
I missed the abuse. I’m going to sick fuck; I know I’m going to be reincarnated to a woman that’s married to a bastard, yup, a POS like I was to the woman I loved.
Million-dollar men, sex, and drugs go hand in hand. I crave it, lust for it, and will show you a good time for the week and then sabotage myself. I am used to fake love and hurt and want more.
Now, I am smoking on some buds, calming the voices
with a profound sense of humor. That’s the only way I know how to deal. I laugh and joke, but people get upset and angry in the process.
Then they leave, sitting there blankly in my apartment, called the tree house, where all types of artists have left a piece of the canvas of their heart, body, and soul. I am upset with trauma.
Saying to myself the voices saying Damn, Damn, Damn, you’re a fuck up, as mini cartoon vultures prancing around my head.
Myself, goddammit that shit didn’t work, I came to grips with it and realized I’m just a Masochist who loves the hurt…
For poetry and more, visit Mecella.