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Story/"poem" about expirences with drugs with my ex-girlfriend and her friends around the room in her best friend Mellony's house and how it effected my ex-girlfriend Mellisa's life and the reasons why this was often her resort at the end of day

I break my soul,

break my imagination,

just tryin’ to rope my mind,

tryin’ to bring it in,

is my longing for self understanding considered a sin?

 

The bruises on her legs tell the story of her day,

I try to make it better but I don’t know what to say,

so I sit with her and her friends,

pushin’ lungs to then end,

light up the bong,

sing along to the song,

wish I could fly,

but I can’t so I walk through the sky,

the grooves in the ceiling resemble the clouds,

billowing storm races over the horizon of my existence,

all that keeps me on the ledge of consistency is my mental resistance.

Get angry at the world,

fear growing up into a suit n’ tie,

maybe its an epiphany,

maybe im too damn high.

I don’t know what to do with all this excess time,

maybe put it to my arms,

turn them to wings n’ take to the skies,

and when I pass by the birds I look into their eyes,

stream of confidence and electricity races through my veins

a neurological gesture,

a profound terminal intellectual wound specially made to rot and to fester.

Tryin’ to turn the door knob with my mind,

becoming my own jester,

my mind is sharp on the tip but dull on the edge like my pocket knife,

open the door hoping on the other side will ly the answer to my life,

but all I see is her eyes n’ nothing but strife,

the bricks in the wall are placed like her life’s luck,

steady and the same but when the ground shakes they get all ripped up.

And so she kisses me just because,

looking past her face I see the paint chip on the window seal become real as if it never was.

The walls become taller.

Wider at the top than they are at the base as the paint becomes wet again and drips onto my face.

Its not a hallucination.

Its my minds curious fascination with the destinations I could go,

with the places I could visit without leaving the room.

My pupils wide as the universe’s benevolence,

my soul opens to my minds irreverence,

my hands placed firmly on the shoulders of the messengers of fate and unfairness,

I ready myself to fall subconsciously through my plain of self awareness.

 

I break my soul,

break my imagination,

just tryin’ to rope my mind,

tryin’ to bring it in,

is my longing for self understanding considered a sin?

 

And after all this I breathe out the smoke,

take another hit to my head n’ start it all again.

This time around its all the same,

except this time around it isn’t a game,

it’s a method for dulling her intuition,

for suppressing her ambitions,

the ones she knows she will never achieve,

so she fights it with seven leaf ammunition,

because she knows she has no way to get up and leave.

So she takes those hits like she’s on a mission.

But even after she’s sober I notice her passive submission,

in the bedroom,

just walking or talking,

the way she lives her life in general.

It changes,

it rearranges,

not always for the best,

but even so she takes those hits like a bullet proof vest.

So she pushes her intellect to the limits of its fascination,

she’s the sort of person who crosses trust with sexual alleviation,

pushing herself with persistent insecure methods of mood elevation.

So push it back,

push it all away,

tell me why,

tell me which way,

give me one more reason not to stay.

Twist my words,

change what I meant to say,

her passive aggressive method of being overly progressive.

But still takes her fathers beatings never saying a word,

never learned to fly,

broken wing on her left like a bird.

The look in her eyes and the tone of her voice,

speaking as if about to abort mission,

speaking through softly comes her jumbled verbal transmissions.

And so I see it in her eyes,

never knowing how to act surprised,

its because everything in her life is over repetitive,

so much that when she speaks,

when she loves,

she’s always tentative.

And so her and I fill our lungs with this overpriced sedative.

Author's Note

Please ignore the actual subject when giving reviews and focus more on what you think of the writing itself weathe or not you have some sort of problem with the actal subject.

Reviews

[Legion]

For being so young, you definetly feel and see what is around you. Your writing isn't that bad either. It will improve (what improvement it needs) as you continue to write. Time will temper the tale. Your vocabulary is impressive as well. I think you have the potential to become a great writer as long as you stay true the story you wish to tell. A little trick I did when I was younger to help improve was to acquire a dictionary and a thesarus. I would write out what I wanted to say and then look up better ways to say it. I also read alot of other people's stuff to help improve as well. If you get a chance, I think you might understand my poems "Quantity vs. Quality" and "Write! (Frankenstein As the Poet)". Check them out sometime.

[Pinky]

Its an awesome write... u can tell it comes from the heart... thank you so much 4 entering my contest.