Do you ever feel that fall; a sharp drop and realization you are alone again? The world is ugly and cold, and you are stuck here manipulating it till you cross over again. There are some connections that are so deep that the only escape is death. This other soul is engrained and embedded in your entire being and without them the terror of reality sets it. How alone we all truly are, how unsure, hurt and unimportant.

There is something internally wrong with me. I was born with a system that did not wire properly. I'm slowly turning into the person i've always hated. The person I would look at in disgust, or wonder how they could possibly do the things they did. The answer is easy now, circumstance. Everything in their past led up to it, shaped them, molded them into that moment. They were people that did not have the ability to run themselves. Like in this moment, I do not run myself. I let things happen because I do not have the mind to stop, then I continue because what else would I do then.

I sit here, cornering myself. Forgetting how to exist daly. My passions don't feel like the belong to me now. I have traded them in for instant, simple pleasures. I have become sedated.

The real issue was never heroin, it was what heroin was covering up. And when its gone, it begins to spill over and no wonder i've never lasted longer than 30 days sober.  Everything becomes too real and my brain begins to decompress all of my flaws. Like every ill intention must thaw, like every bad habit must be reformed. The longer you do dope, the less will power you have. You've already stuck the needle in you once, why not do it again? Why not lose self-control, why not just follow instinct. You aren't lost when you are on dope, you are honest. You have to pick between being numb on heroin or releasing all your demons off of it. The self-control you lost won't be easy to pick up again, so you might as well be numb and semi-you till you die. I mean thats better than the worst version you become in sobriety. Getting sober is the easy part, figuring out who the fuck you are and what you should really be doing is the hard. You lack motivation, you don't write, you don't read or grow. You lay in bed and waste away, no better than with a needle in your hand. Still hurting people, still not knowing what the fuck is right.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

But can this change? Can you work to rebuild yourself? Force yrself to write, to let the words drain. To read, to feel, to speak the truth. To be radically honest.

If I leave you with anything I leave you with this, 

Feed your head, fuck authority, follow your dreams, don’t fucking stop, never fucking stop, 
you are not a blank slate, you do not have to conform, if you are free, love is free. 
You’ll never be lonely if you cultivate your best friend, yourself. 
You are an individual, your energy is not created or destroyed. 
You do not have to follow them, you do not have to be found.
Lose yourself, endlessly. Fall in and out of this existence over

And over

Until you understand, please (don’t let them take your inside away)

I need a reminder

Heroin is calling death, getting close to its dark, warm edges.
But, if you shoot too much, you go all the way.
Then, there is no more calling, you have made it.

These Are My Confessions

These are my confession, they rise like unwanted questions, 
like the truth coming out, 
like someone invading. They are here, written in block letters, tailored to the page. 
The specifications untainted. They begin in a way that if I told you more,
you would not believe, it. 

I am here, only partially, only in small amounts. 
I am painted in soft shades of black, ill angels advising me. 

I am only what I’m told I am

I am my favorite dream that only comes to me when Im high.

july 9th

trigger finger happy, self destruction in mind
Chaos comes creeping in sections
my heart bleeds open
as I feel everything inside me escape
I am no longer me without it
helping me control my entire existence