I’m thinking about death.
I’m thinking about paper trails.
I’m thinking about blind typing.
When I go would there be an investigation?
Would my S.O. follow clues?
Watch every blu-ray left behind?
Chase what little social media I had?
Would he ask friends about me?
Interact and learn?
Would he try to find my ghost in my past?
Try to grasp every ounce of my being in the media I consume?
Would he interact with family?
Would he go on an Easter egg hunt for answers to questions only his god hole conjured up?
Dabble in it all like esoteric text?
I know that’s not what it should be.
I’ll try and fill everything before I go.
But time is random, tonight could be my last.
Every night could’ve been my last.
That night when the grass became hands, rising from the dark dirt, spiraling into infinity.
As the painkillers numbed my nerves and I felt alone and at home.
Many nights like that, they create aspiration.
They create regret.
When I lay out all the non-normals to another I’m filled with a feeling of failure.
Judgement as well, trying to ascertain if the other normal thinks less of me, perhaps gain insight on if they think I’m a junkie.
Maybe even a past addict?
Right now I’m at the moment when I’ve gained the most,
I have the most to lose.
I once was told by a stranger on the internet who i dated briefly that for poetry I didn’t have to rhyme, a lesson that at the moment seemed like an impossible habit to break.
I keep these poems up to reflect on myself.
A form of digital therapy.
The more time progresses the better I feel about my poetry, I don’t view them as awfully as when they’re first created. When I put this stuff up I don’t know if anyone reads it, but I keep it up for me and for whatever random person stumbles upon this hole in the wall.
I can make these posts short or pages long.
I have the total freedom to express myself with absolute confidence.
The internet is getting bigger and more restricted.
A very funny contradiction.
Does anyone even know literary irony anymore?
Do words even mean what they did when they were first created?
Small thoughts for a devils idle mind.
Back to therapy though.
This is obviously not a solution or a replacement, rather a tool to help.
It’s been almost a month with no devils lettuce.
and years with no other stranger stuff.
but when I get asked about my past by doctors, it feels like I did it all yesterday.
I don’t regret my trials and caveman experiments, I only regret that it might make a false image of me.
I suppose I fear the judgement.
I suppose I fear the idea that my issues come from external stimuli.
That it’s all because of chemicals.
I’m building a site to host these works, so they may never be lost.
May 2nd, 2019 12:30am