Relapse.
For all purposes and meanings, I should be dead right now.
I had given up on God. I couldn't find him in my music. I couldn't find him in the great Outdoors. I couldn't even find him in the chemicals. I've been waiting for him to speak to me for years now. I'm one of God's children too. I need his guiding hand every now and then. An Atheist has never gone through depression. It's hard to believe once you try to kill yourself, that there isn't a God, and that he isn't cruel.
Lately, it seems like I've been yearning for that hand to tell me what I'm supposed to do. The hole has been digging itself around me for years. I'm constanstly sifting through the dirt, trying to dig my way out. I dig more dirt into my grave. Now my only emotion is, "What am I going to do now?"
Is it like fighting quicksand? Must I turn a blind eye to what I feel? Feel. Man. Most people don't even understand the meaning of the word. They've built themselves walls and fortresses. How am I supposed to save a woman's soul if I'm drowning in the muck? I swore to myself that I wouldn't let my bleeding chest get in the way of true beauty.
Now, I also realize that feeling is such true beauty. People seem to overlook it while they search for it. It's not a needle in a haystack. This emotion is color, taste and art. It's everywhere. I wallow in it, breathe it in. It's my air. It's what I was born with. I would rather be the broken hearted chain smoking man in the corner of the bar, weeping over his breakfast and whiskey. My crow's feet will tell a story.
It wells up from my solar plexus, it oozes from the very essence of me. Maybe this feeling is God. I've gotten so lost in it that I can't find my way out. People won't give me direction. They just tell me to stop feeling. They might as well tell me to stop breathing.
But forget about people. They're flawed, I doubt they know what they're doing any more that I do. They're lost souls in a country of lost souls. The real question is, "What will God tell me?" Is this God's country? I think not. This is Hell. I am in Hell. I am being buried alive, and I can not exorcize the demons in my skull. They will not ease off the lash, they will not take pity on my humanity. Will God tell me how to rescue my sanity?
He seems to be instructing me on insanity. Does that not make him more cruel than the demons?
I think he spoke to me last night. It was entheogenic. I took over fifteen pills of the anti-anxiety medication the doctor prescribed. I find that ironic. Then, I topped it off with four pills of amphetamines and a bottle of Wild Turkey. If that isn't Irony, please point me to the English department.
I am still alive. For what? It defeats me. Don't parents tell their children what to do and what not to? Why should I find out for myself the hard way? I'd rather be dead, but God seems to have something else in store for me. I hope it's not more beauty.
I can't handle any more beauty right now. My heart is bleeding all over this sheet of paper. I wonder if there is any blood left in my veins. My lifestream seems parched, a dried riverbed.
Someone, somewhere, anywhere, help me. Help me before I wither from the inside. Help me before my soul dies from an overdose of feeling. Blinded by fear, consumed by hate, life is a corrugated breadknife. Get it over with. Or get me before it's over with.
What must I do now? What will I do without her?
I had given up on God. I couldn't find him in my music. I couldn't find him in the great Outdoors. I couldn't even find him in the chemicals. I've been waiting for him to speak to me for years now. I'm one of God's children too. I need his guiding hand every now and then. An Atheist has never gone through depression. It's hard to believe once you try to kill yourself, that there isn't a God, and that he isn't cruel.
Lately, it seems like I've been yearning for that hand to tell me what I'm supposed to do. The hole has been digging itself around me for years. I'm constanstly sifting through the dirt, trying to dig my way out. I dig more dirt into my grave. Now my only emotion is, "What am I going to do now?"
Is it like fighting quicksand? Must I turn a blind eye to what I feel? Feel. Man. Most people don't even understand the meaning of the word. They've built themselves walls and fortresses. How am I supposed to save a woman's soul if I'm drowning in the muck? I swore to myself that I wouldn't let my bleeding chest get in the way of true beauty.
Now, I also realize that feeling is such true beauty. People seem to overlook it while they search for it. It's not a needle in a haystack. This emotion is color, taste and art. It's everywhere. I wallow in it, breathe it in. It's my air. It's what I was born with. I would rather be the broken hearted chain smoking man in the corner of the bar, weeping over his breakfast and whiskey. My crow's feet will tell a story.
It wells up from my solar plexus, it oozes from the very essence of me. Maybe this feeling is God. I've gotten so lost in it that I can't find my way out. People won't give me direction. They just tell me to stop feeling. They might as well tell me to stop breathing.
But forget about people. They're flawed, I doubt they know what they're doing any more that I do. They're lost souls in a country of lost souls. The real question is, "What will God tell me?" Is this God's country? I think not. This is Hell. I am in Hell. I am being buried alive, and I can not exorcize the demons in my skull. They will not ease off the lash, they will not take pity on my humanity. Will God tell me how to rescue my sanity?
He seems to be instructing me on insanity. Does that not make him more cruel than the demons?
I think he spoke to me last night. It was entheogenic. I took over fifteen pills of the anti-anxiety medication the doctor prescribed. I find that ironic. Then, I topped it off with four pills of amphetamines and a bottle of Wild Turkey. If that isn't Irony, please point me to the English department.
I am still alive. For what? It defeats me. Don't parents tell their children what to do and what not to? Why should I find out for myself the hard way? I'd rather be dead, but God seems to have something else in store for me. I hope it's not more beauty.
I can't handle any more beauty right now. My heart is bleeding all over this sheet of paper. I wonder if there is any blood left in my veins. My lifestream seems parched, a dried riverbed.
Someone, somewhere, anywhere, help me. Help me before I wither from the inside. Help me before my soul dies from an overdose of feeling. Blinded by fear, consumed by hate, life is a corrugated breadknife. Get it over with. Or get me before it's over with.
What must I do now? What will I do without her?