III

Passion is my drug of choice

What is there to say?

That I grew up in a place
Where people died every year
By suicide, gas sniffing, the elements
Or each other?

That when my family moved south
To offer me a better education
They fractured
Under the pressure?

That in a subconscious attempt to cope
I found love?

That I lost my arm
To a drunk driver
When I was no older
Then eighteen?

That I wasn't capable
Of maintaining my high-school love
So when we broke up
She told me she was aborting my baby?

That for years I believed her?

That following that belief
I had bouts with madness?

That my psyche couldn't hold? 

That I pulled myself from some depths
Few people ever experience
And still manage to see
The light of day?

That now I'm a student
striving for strait A's?

That even when I'm dust
I'll still have my strength?

That no one other then myself
Can light
Or put out
My own fire?

So go ahead

Call me a liar

...

That being said

I guess there is a lot to say

So it's no wonder I wan't to be a writer.

- A.S.M.B

Reviews

[Ookpik]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o8tBPidveM4

[...]

This is realy way down. all these events are just tragical. i can feel sadnes . also there is some beauty at the words. something what can prevail. all together make beautiful sad poem.

[Ookpik]

Thank you : ) I believe it is our tragedy as well as our ability to over them that makes us individuals in this wide, wide world.

[Tori Jones]

Very beautiful! Thank you for sharing such a moment...

[Ookpik]

Your very welcome : )