I'm walking down a crowded street.
I close my eyes, thrown off my feet.
The smell of unknown smoke and ***...

Feeling just
an empty
hum.

The flash of thigh across my skin.
Beautiful and full of sin.

I'm less than what the clock can count,
but more than in your bank account...


My lids fly up and see those eyes.
Full of
confusion
and peculiar surprise.
Apparently I was dancing down
the ******* sidewalk like a clown.

I stuff my face inside a book
and gave the government a look.
Religion too, but all I saw
were dead things and a vultures caw.

I'll never see the ******* point
at bending our souls out of joint.

I'd rather have you in my bed
moaning till we both are dead.



The smell of sweat and flashing lights.
Fiery ghosts aren't out of sight.
If we're the noise of generation now,
Then
****
the
static.

Refuse to bow.

You know you've hit rock bottom when you get to this place.

Which is not hell, since I've seen it.

It's bigger;
emptier...

It's scary.

Is it a place?

Or is it a time?

...

I reckon it is a time.

That when you hate yourself so much,

you won't even cry about it.

You won't stand in front of a mirror and frown about it,

Or complain about it.

You will do all you can

to forget about it,

Just not think about it.

You will look at your scars and wonder about them.

Feel them and think about them.

But you won't say anything about them.

You will then turn to the mirror

And regret facing your fear.

Because you'll see your face and get mad about it,

You will see your body and scream about it.

You will see self-hatred and try to forget about it.

but you can't forget about it.

Not until you take your blade and bleed about it.

But, you will never feel better about it

Because:

you've                                                           ­                                                         
       ­                                                                 ­                
hit                                                              ­                
                                                  
rock                                      
                      ­                
bottom.

There's no getting better from this

But you WILL NOT cry about it.