Feels like it will never end, the suffering. The internal carnage between who I really want to be versus what others envision me as. A disease seeping out of my pours, transforming into new fixations I never thought would cripple me on most nights.
It’s not the weed, nor the booze. Now? It’s a plate of food. Like tonight, I haven’t been able to end a single day without being full of beef patties with coco bread, a steaming tray of lamb over rice, a can of vanilla coke and a donut suffocating my arteries.
And man, do I finish it all. Not a single bite left behind. Straight into an aching stomach it goes while my heart grumbles for somebody’s touch.
But, as much trouble I’ve been having to put down the fork, I haven’t had much trouble picking a pen back up, dusting it off hoping to recreate the same spark of flame I’ve once had when scratching away at a piece of paper. And, the longer my hand sways left to right, left to right, left to right, a trail of smoke appears, the more ink hisses…
Hopefully, I’m closer to that breaking point. That moment where each page erupts into a ball of fire burning to ash every bit of doubt I’ve ever had before a knife is stuck in me…
m3l0dicverse 
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