Flawed, Love
by E.J. Crowe

I get chills trying to love—
cold sweats, goosebumps,
when **** starts to weave right for once.
I self-destruct.
Blow up.
Turn toxic in the worst way.
Push the webs of depth and truth
to the darkest corners.

I yell.
I swear.
I break ****.

Why?
When love = pure.
But for me, pure =
hidden agendas,
secrets and ***** whispers.

My life only feels normal
when surrounded by chaos and pain—
that’s how my parents and foster homes molded me.
My love ballets are spiteful, *****.
“You stupid *****, you dumb *****,”
as I choke her and feel her wetness.
That’s passion.
That’s love.

Bedroom erotica.
Most women love that.
Especially my wife.
She was there—
when I was homeless, addicted.

Yet still,
tick tick tick,
I try and self-destruct.
The quiet explosion.
Tension.
Fake arguments.
Secret love.

Can I be honest?
Can I deliver my flawed, honorable love?
Or is it just lust that makes me crazy?

Her curves—
a canvas to explore
with calloused hands.
Roaming.
A hitch in her breath.
A gasp—
as she wraps her legs around me
and pulls me deep.

Can I be normal?
Is this normal?

Long nights,
shallow thoughts,
while she sleeps in a lustful glazed haze.
She loves our intimate time—
when I degrade and choke.
Once it's over,
it’s like an elongated dream.
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”

Back to innocence.
Hand-holding.
Kissing.
And in that moment of calm,
I finally feel something close to peace.

She kissed my scars like they were scripture,
and I bled peace for the first time.

"The Box"
by E.J. Crowe

Here in the dark,
I feel safe
from a crude, despicable world.

I shroud myself in darkness
and self-loathing,
my mind races like euphoria
seeping through the fragile cracks
of my forever-decaying mind.

I sit in the woods
and ponder in deep-rooted thought.
Society already discarded me—
labeled me roadkill,
useless,
a loser.

They might as well have handed me
a loaded gun,
a noose,
a heavy bottle of Percs and Oxys,
forever deluding my sense
of social connection.

I chose to stay away from the humans.
This is peace—
among famine, war,
and hateful people
with fake smiles
and hollow souls.

I only feel whole
laying in the woods,
my only company:
a half-empty 40
and a crushed pack of cigarettes.

Smoke.
Think.
Smoke.
Drink.
Smoke.
Stop.

My soul cannot forgive this world.
It's forever lost
and ******.

I choose to dance in silence
with the voices in my head,
confronting my own demons.

Through the box,
I see the truth.
That’s peace.

"Through the Cracked Door"

My childhood was empty—
Bleak.

Not at first.
Through the looking glass,
we looked like the Hallmark dream—
smiles painted on,
love rehearsed.
A family photo framed in lies.

But behind the cracked door,
beneath the peeling paint,
through dilapidated windows and stained curtains—
you’d see the truth.

Abuse.
Trauma.
No lullabies. No warm embraces.
Might as well have strung the noose themselves—
wrapped tight 'round my throat.
My heart beat loud in my chest
as I heard my father’s footsteps—
a countdown to pain.
The only peace I knew
was silence.

Do they love me?
They must… right?

Mom—numb on pills,
Dad—gambling away rent money,
Dinner—skipped.
Bruises—not.
Blood. Scars.
Lies wrapped in lullabies that never came.

When do I get saved?

Foster care?
Another joke.
Another hollow house,
cracked foundations.
Smiles made of plastic and practiced phrases.
But when the social worker left—
it was back to beatings.
Back to blood.
Back to scars.

When does it end?

Wire wrapped around my heart,
blood filling my ears,
voices fade—
I’m fading.
I’m lost.

Fast forward.
Hit play.

I’m 16.
Homeless.
Ran away.

Found comfort in poisons—
drugs, *****,
and strangers’ arms.

My blood became my ink.
Pain became my voice.
Cold. Alone.
But finally—
free.

Only Been an Hour"

The fragile cracks of my mind,
decapitated, decayed—
like a festering wound,
a portal to the unknown.

My clouded thoughts
once wore a hollow mask—
a smile painted in panic,
a joke to cloak the hurt.

“Hi, how are you?”
I ask, out of habit,
too scared to leave the comfort
of my hollow home.

A hermit,
lost in the midst of madness,
questioning everything:
Am I normal?
Am I okay?
I must be—
I'm still alive, still pulsing...
But it all feels like a deep ruse
to hide my trauma.

Am I me?
Or am I plastic?

A lone wolf taught to bottle his pain—
because “that’s just how men are raised,” right?

The pressure builds,
and I can’t take it.
One drink—
and my emotions bleed
through the cracks in my façade.
Another drink—
and another...

Now I’ve got my tiger stripes,
I’ve got my confidence.
But I’m numb.
No joy. No fear.
Just silence.

Is this real?

Maybe a line.
Some blow.
A pill.
Blackout.

I wake in a puddle of *****—
shirtless, sweating, shaking—
a corpse with a pulse.

Is this me?

I hear muffled voices
as I come to in a hospital bed.
No questions asked,
just dismissal.
Back home.

Back to silence.

I cry myself to sleep
as the clock ticks,
pounding like a hammer
in my skull.

It’s only been an hour.

"Welcome, Black Sheep"
by E.J. Crowe

To the humans that drift in between—
the ones life cast aside, marked as trash.
Why?
Because you're an addict: *****, pills, ****, cigarettes.
All man-made, not God-given.
The Lord sees us in His image—
until we sin.
Good equals bad.
Bad equals chaos.
One cannot thrive without the other.
World peace?
A pipe dream, forged by hopeless humans
for a false sense of security.
A marvel.
A utopia born from delusion.

To the addict who didn’t make it out—
I'm sorry.
Your funeral was beautiful.
You looked majestic. Clean.
A perfect family model now, I guess.
But why the fake suit?
Why the empty words?
No one wants to accept the guilt
of making you a black sheep.
A martyr.

But I saw you.
I saw the silent cries
through needle-laced veins,
your glass mask,
your bloodied eyes.
You were the truth—unfiltered.
At least you had the ***** to be you.

Through the rabbit hole—
how deep does it sway?
Which pill do you take?
Red or blue?
Reality or comfort?
Blurred contrasts of fake existence.

“Drugs are bad,” they scream
from their ivory towers,
judging God’s creation
through man’s corruption.

I was an addict.
I loved to pop pills.
I loved throwing up blood
and waking up in unfamiliar towns,
in strange houses,
sweating,
smelling like shame and stale cigarettes.

Wash that truth down
with your cold beer.
I loved to party.
And addiction loved me back, right?

Did it love the lost souls too?
That’s a loaded question—
barreled with flaws and hollow points.
A hard truth,
etched in scars and injection marks.

Welcome to the family,
fellow black sheep.