I love the fact that I'm fucked up.

I love it.
Every bit.
The slit.
Wrists.
The belt around my neck.
As I'm standing on my chair.
The failed suicide attempts.
The want, no, need to run away.
The love that tears me to strips.
The "I don't give a fuck" attitude.
That's no more than a mask.
The alcoholic family tree.
The cousin who never made it.
The pain.
That stains.
My soul black.
The violent outbursts.
That have subsided slightly.
Though not without a fight.
The growling from under my hood.
The girls, who played with my heart.


And.
The family who devote so much to me.
The better side of that family tree.
The pain we have all shared.
The two cousins who are still there.
The friends.
Brothers some of them.
The large group.
The girl.
Who I want to be with now.
The laughs from outside the hood.
The happiness when I'm not angry.
The state of elation.
When I no longer want to end everything so much.
And still.
The goal of leaving.
Travel.
With my friends or not.
For now.
I am happy.
-H

The drums take me.
As I'm spinning.
In a drunken haze.
The lights flashing.
I'm drifting.
I'm lost.
I love it.
Laughing.
My head pounding.
People fly by.
My pack in the same state.
So much to take in.
As I growl at things.
That rip at my chest.
As the beer flows down my throat.
Howling at myself.
"Why am I not falling?"
I keep drinking.
Keep spinning.
Six pints, not including the two before we came.
Shots.
One, two, three, four, five!
Come on!
Keep spinning.
The drums in my ear.
Throwing my head around.
I can feel the anger fading.
everything I kept inside.
Going.
Leaving.
Unleashed from my soul.
I'm laughing.
Loving every second.
And the feeling carries through.
To when I'm back.
No longer drunk.
But still laughing
And loving every second.
-H

Confessions

I have secrets.

shallow inside, Compact. Each in their own little silk-bowed ribboned box.
wishing to brim out,
and spill.
Stories lapping at the air around
Space to expand and to deliberate upon wishes.

I have feelings,
raw and full of pain
the horrible,
the narcissistic,
the philosophical,
the kindred,

And I have left parts of me behind.
Parts that sometimes I wish were still here.
Parts that I know if I could only act on,
I would feel more free.
Because even those parts I have left behind.
They are still full of me.

No-one really knows.
People don't sit down
and say
'Tell me about yourself'
And I think that if they did,
I could not.
Or perhaps I would not.

Sometimes I would like someone to know.
I wish there was a right someone.
Then I could start to untie those little silk bows.

Why choose a Peacock, over a Wolf?

Why choose a Peacock, over a Wolf?

The Wolf, is the one, who stands by your side.
Was there when you cried.
The one you confide.
In.
And now you discard him.
Thrown away.
Left in pain.
Goin' over in his brain.
Everything he'd ever say.
To you.
He starts anew.
Forgets they ever knew.
You.

The Peacock.
Will not care as much.
Who walks around with such.
Elegance and grace.
Watch it race.
Away as soon.
As it is satisfied.
And the Wolf, to whom you cried.
Will be gone.
Moved on.
To another pack.
Not looking back.
It will have better.
Just wait and see.

Scream Silently

I'm so
utterly
sick of failing. I know this
is all voluntary, but
it doesn't seem to affect
the thoughts. I have
no real addiction, just a
desire which I can't be
bothered to supress. The
same contradictory
thoughts present themselves simultaeneously. Is this
an oxymoron? I think I
finally
understand doublethink... I want
to do it/ I never wanted
to do it. I lie to you and
promise not to do it
any more. Sometimes i
even say i dont
want to do it. But I'm
lying, as you
must realise by now... I lie
too much and I forget
which excuses
I've used before... Did I
blame the door already? What
about the frame? My
nose?

Do you expect me
to resist
tonight? I want the
taste and the intriguing
colouration. Please don't
tell me to stop. That and
the concern just adds
to it. I shouldn't
need this. I don't even know
why I do it. But it
doesn't seem to stop me.

So in the bath I advance
from nails. And enjoy the
clouds.

You must know but
you don't seem
suspicious. And now I've
lost them. All four. Shit.
Panic. Panicpanicpanic. Where?
Oh god oh god does
she know? Why hasn't
she said
anything?

I want to scream but
that would draw too
much attention. So
I scream silently.

Tom