mad drunk genius

I used to have all sorts of problems. Now there's just the one.

Tag: youth

It’s better to be kind than clever

Scribbles on the bedroom wall of a hand-me-friend
apartment, mattress & box spring on the bluey purple
flecked carpet. A duct-taped chair with towel
on the back, a mirror on the floor caked in melted
snow men. A glass table. A pond paining. On
the outside of the door, four Cascadia flag stickers.
——I’m drunk already on swings of Trader Joe’s
——’Blended Scotch Whisky’ but I can tell the light
——switch cover is off-balance.
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The first chemical dependency is happiness.

Everything is

going to be all

right. We just

have to try

real hard.

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Youth should be left to the young, not exploited

I’ve got an eyelid palpitation that just won’t go away. I’ve got long distance vision that recedes, only, and fuzziness that hides everything that ain’t palm distance away.

I’ve got regrets! Things that have got behind me, and as much as I try rewind them, reality don’t work that way, even shrooming in the shower, or trying real hard.

‘Darlin, I don’t get to have you in my life.’ What a hard thing this is to accept. Living has consequences, and mutually exclusive alternatives seem evermore significant as the branching existence spreads further apart, and more verdant, always (we tell ourselves).

There are always young people nearby that may be tricked, fooled, bamboozled into wasting their youth on you, but tho you bathe in their blood, you gain yet nothing from it.

Find someone your age, your maturity, your match, and grow flabby, soft, saggy with them. Learn from them as much as you learn from the rest of life, and drink up their flesh with the understanding that happiness is the greatest toner of all.

(But She’s gone. And all there is is texting.)

So I wept for what I hadn’t had but lost.

My eyes are not green, but I am a monster and full of envy.

I envy those who have more than I, be that money, knowledge, power, or courage. I envy those who surpass me and my accomplishments.

I envy the young and despise them for living as I did not. As I do not. I envy the young for never growing older.

I envy my youth as I watch it disappear and hate my inability to change, it or myself.

I envy my dreaming self for being free and perfect in all the ways I am not. I envy him for being able to play in the unmelting snows of yesteryear. I envy him for communing with ideals while I’m stuck with waking reality. I envy him for being oblivious of me and happy while I am all too aware of who and where he is. I envy him for never having to wake up.

So I weep for what I never have and lose.