I wrote this on November 14th 2009. It was a bad week.
I feel the needles pressing my skin. Pressing harder and harder until they penetrate every part of my sexual appetite. I’m hungry and I can’t eat. Broken, poor, jaded yet lucid. I cry for more and I get less. I don’t want more and I get too much. The time it takes to get what I want isn’t worth the sheet of paper I write on. The terrible headaches and body spasms are permanent. I’ve come to believe that I believe in nothing. Pleasure has slipped away and pain is my best friend. The kind of friend that betrays you the minute you turn your back. Crying is useless and laughing is fake.
I spit on the ground and wait and watch and wait and watch and it doesn’t dry up. It stays there like the thoughts and obsessions of a possessed man. No dreams or passion. Only nightmarish obsessions sticking to the ground.
I eat what I see and see what I eat. I barely live on my own mind’s eye. Splintered vision separates me from you. I see only what I want. You see a ravished slave to his desires. I see a man living hand to mouth and ass to mouth. Shit. I hate when life creeps up on me and gives me what I deserve.
Maybe if I hide under a blanket of memories it will feel better. No. I have no memories. They go as fast as I come. Faster.