You're trying to find a way out of your own head.
Your winding stories immortalized in your imagination
are your ball and chain.
Escape is useless if you only see what you want.
Fabricated memories of happiness remain imprinted.
Sweetness.
We walk away with so many scars of pain
that we forget that we once smiled enough
to leave wrinkles around our mouthes and eyes.
Your mind is drugged and useless.
You only know lies and the pain of the needle.
Sobriety is overrated if it can only bring
the harsh realization that you will never again recognize
euphoria.
It is watered down, drowned in tears
and substances that are best left unnamed.
Your tongue is heavy from licking your lips.
They become chapped from all the words you use
to paint the sky.
Your self-portrait.
Creations of carmine and turpentine destructions.
You are your own kind of artist.
You use bottles drugs pills.
Catalysts to the brooding you wish you could flee.
This feeling is only temporary.
Futility.
Two hundred and fifty-six shades of gray.
There is no color to the maze in your subconscious.
Twisting and turning dreams remain monotonous.
Nightmares.
Death despair devotion.
All is lost on you.
Your eyes are taped shut, you're only beautiful in your mind.
Ignorance is bliss, we learn so little from peace.
Death isn't peace, it's selfishness.
But you're my favorite narcissist.
You're preoccupied with perfection in smoke and mirrors.
Illusions can't last forever.
But they remain painted in the sky.
A sullen masterpiece, proof that pain exists in beauty.
Your vodka's one hundred proof, but that doesn't
prove a thing.
