my insides dried up and died

 theres so much sorrow in involving myself in a circle that im obsessed with. i create a competition that to me seems real, that is definitely real, no one acknowledges it as real but we all know it is. i am a ugly paranoid person which makes it easy to fixate on something so simple as band rivalry in the midst of more horrific things going on in the world, that is a privilege to keep my world so small far from accuracy. when everyone leaves then im left alone the despair goes into my bones i distract even during a storm my mind is a simple tornado of vapid thoughts that would be manageable for anyone that was raised right. i dont have emotional intelligence to bite well to hold my own i am the most weak attack dog that people are slowly seeing. i am not a threat to anyone there is no respect held for someone that makes out with bottles above all else the fawning of my sickness was kute and attractive in early age, now grows pathetic with every passing day, no one feels empathy for a cutter over twenty five i am a robot, do it head to toe wishing.

the storm outside my window is pretty but makes the owl go away i only listen to music after drinking. sober i am on flower sheets gazing without a wonder in my mind i stopped all thoughts i am no longer active. the benzos i take everyday i use medicinally no recreation i use them utilitarian at a cost of my character, i cant handle an emotion anymore. i lost my job i cant see myself working again i will run this last check. i cant wear tank tops or short sleeves i have deformed my body i can only work in backrooms if im lucky if someone takes a chance on me. i thought i could be famous that will never happen i never even made a move. by chance one day i would be plucked out of my bed as a gorgeous individual flower. i am coming to terms with that i am not, my story is the same as everybodys. i ruined myself for a dream that was never possible, worse that i am not the artist i thought i was, i cant create without help, i need a platform on someone elses chair. no money can ever come of poetry i question if im even a poet. im just an alcoholic that thought i deserved more but you make your own future but i pride myself in never having one.

cie la vie
love
michelle