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So I don't know why I wrote this. Did it a few weeks ago on a whim. It worked out pretty well, I think, even if there is no continuous motif. At the very least, I think it would be very easy to slam if I straightened up the first few lines. Enjoy!



Break the glass ceiling
Like a nail to the face, don’t let it go
It leaves pretty stigmata
Like a cross embellishing good God’s hands
Touch it to feel the wound
Or twist a lit cigarette in it to feel it better
This ugly chastisement for an ugly deed
Addiction is like cancer
But it comes in bottles and cartons instead of living tissues
And it feels like a form of mental and physical retardation
Because if someone handed me a pint of arsenic, I wouldn’t drink it
But I’ll take a gallon in my pack a day
Right after I slice open a vein so I can feel like someone cares
At least I punish myself for this slow suicide
If you twist your mind around it enough, breaking that glass ceiling should be a pretty damn good source of sharps.
But breaking addiction is more like falling through concrete
Without a theoretical physicist to help you shift your molecules so that
Some part of you sifts into the sidewalk
Where people trash you, half in hell and even in your cement semi-tomb
You try to move for the lighter.
No, instead you have to smash your head against the floor until it bleeds
Nicotine
And cracks in the pavement finally start to appear only once your brains are
Gooped on the boardwalk and someone’s singing “Everything’s All Right”
To make you feel like a superstar when really
You just want to rape them with a machine gun.
Sounds nasty, but you can’t tell me it’s not true.
Once you’re in hell, it’s already frozen over and what’s left is some
Half-a** cockroaches that for all the world look like blunts that can
Carry you on your private, tar-sludge tidal wave on a
Happy acid trip back out
But you put on a sweatshirt and a sweater and an overcoat and a scarf and wool socks and snow pants and double-lined boots while the cold cuts your bones open and exposes raw knife- wrought scars to the wind and you eye the razor and the cannabis with equal alacrity, wondering how crack whores feel on a slow day.
If you live,
You get most of the way out before the sidewalk closes on your foot
You break a chunk off, but the mafia tied it tight and there is not chisel nor
God
In the world to do anything but try to pretend it’s a bass-relief.
The rest of your life is spent seeing
Spent roaches in trash cans
And spent lives on your sickness
And everything you’ve spent and how much it cost you then
And how little it would cost to go back again.