Blessed are the Damned

A poem I wrote after thinking about all the whacky episodes I've had with my relationships with people.

Those with
healthier minds
than us
call us broken,
but we who shake
with anxiety and
temper problems,
with our hearts beaten blue from sadness
are the ones
who at least
truly
live.

Them,
they’ve never
walked home from the expressway
after they self destructed
and left a moving car, or
drank an entire fifth
in a couple hours
and cried and screamed all night
to their friends about the voices 
they hear
and the things
they see
that are never there.

They’ve never called their girlfriend
a c**t
at the top of their lungs,
or smashed a whiskey bottle
into the floor while
impatiently waiting for her
to come home.

And they certainly
have never
laid in their bed
at 3am
staring at the wall,
too paralyzed
with their never ending grief
to even
blink.

They’ll never romanticize
alcoholism
or fighting
or crying
or shrieking
or scratching
or tragedy
or hatred
or madness.

They’ll just be
happy.

And then they’ll die
without a
single
story
to tell.