The Drought of Rimbaud

So I’m an alcoholic
I started and I’d be insane to stop
For once in my life
I’ll finish what I started
There will be an end. A point.
I’ll drink myself straight into the grave

And the children in grown torso
Grown body
Will speak of how they tried to save a lost soul
But that soul was nowhere to be found

Well I’m here and I know
Just as they must somewhere,
Beneath the layers of rotting termite wood
That they aren’t here with me.

That they couldn’t give a shit’
If they were paid
But that’s okay.

I can’t depend on masturbating assholes
Penetrating
Fisting
Torn like carved turkey

I have to be alone
It’s the only way

I have to strip back the skin
And the love
And find the reality within

The reality of self-loathing and to give up eagerly
On everything I’ve ever “loved”
The truth being I never loved it
I never loved you
I never loved.

I just waited for you to stop talking
So I could get back to the written word
And write my own little truths
And my own little shit piles.

It doesn’t matter how much I write
How many wrongs I right;
It’ll never be enough
I’ll never achieve the impossible
Impossible only to me.

Only I know the passage of inadequacy
I gave up the best
So I could learn what it means to suffer

I gave up love and happiness
So I could scratch shitty poems into human flesh
Maybe eventually flesh other than my own
But I doubt it.

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