a different sky I'd fly
you don’t understand what its like for me
for twelve long years I’ve lived as one of the un-dead,
I’ve watched you laugh, sip and gulp your way into slake
all the while I was craving, always perpetually craving,
my heightened sense of smell kicks in
when a bottles opened and breath heady blows into my face,
I’m an alcoholic, an unavoidable vampire of happenstance
and your red wine is my blood,
that bottle has a neck
and believe me my fangs will rip it out,
this convoluted rabbit hole has me scared and lost
but my beast wont die by stake,
under a pensive cloud I ruminate the vial of mendacity I’ve filled
my own mind my coffin, my own thoughts my sunlight,
I was whipped into a false submission before I’d started
long ago the faint etching of a mark was burnt into the skin of my back,
now I’m not like you, I cant live in your world anymore,
don’t mourn me, you can’t mourn what you mock, what you’ve forgotten
a selfless act of selfishness that squeezes out all the love,
just as you smooth the skin behind a splinter and all the dirty blood flows out in the slipstream,
you don’t understand what its like for me
I want a semblance of the live that you have,
I wish to roam and mingle and do all those things
that pull a pack animals soul, draw their bones into a group,
instead I watch from an odd vantage point
I’m perched atop the gargoyles that groan this cities stone,
their soothing, whispering caresses give a sustenance of empty comfort
as I dance a waltz of a different time in my mind,
all the revellers I see and feel their palpable joy
as they trundle drunken and singing, laughing and joking,
they think its raining and hold out their hands
don’t look up, you’ll see my perched shadow crying,
you say you want to know what its like to be me
so I’ll tell you while you recline an imbibe the drug of my choice,
its like being dead and having all your emotions slit hung and bled
that’s a fair summation of what it feels like,
its like having your heart and soul chopped down, felled
after being turned into a block of rotting cold dark wood,
that’s constantly being chiselled and chipped away
until there’s nothing left but frozen splinters,
that’s what its like to be me
to be emotionally mute,
I starve the closest to me of myself
if they saw the real me they’d turn away, avert their hearts and eyes,
I listen as you talk and I hear your hearts hushed tones
I hear the bubbles of bigotry percolate in your chest,
I know what you think of my kind
that we deserve and cause our own unrest,
I once heard a tale of the buddha, called the gift
I really recommend you learn its tune,
because I don’t accept the animosity that you house for me
as in the tale of the gift, it still belongs to you,
and I know its my fault, my path is my own construction
and I suppose that its just that my poison is true and not a lie,
but believe me when I say that if I had wisdom or time on my young hands
a truly different sky I’d soar, I’d fly,
the next time your out traversing the town
take a look up at the tops of any old stone buildings you see,
and there perched atop of the gargoyles
you’ll find an army of people just like me,
shadowed, faceless and hooded
we suffer the pain dealt by the hands of ourselves,
we’ve galloped with the hunt and been blooded
our decency and dignity festering on a dusty shelf,
so, all in all that’s the true sting and welt and pure abash of addiction
I took its hand, laid it down and consummated the union we’d made,
like a marriage of convenience we both rattle around
in this dilapidated, derelict stately home of my mind,
full of rooms with locked doors where monsters reside sedated
we pass each other on the stairs from time to time,
we both know our hate is strong for one another
a divorce would make us too alone,
I can hear its voice sing to me some nights,
through the darkness its serenade washes over me,
its hiss like a vipers kiss upon its prey
and strength I shan’t let abate, your entice wont turn me today,
you whisper:
we are what we are
we will be what we will be,
we have been what we were
what we can’t we will dream,
you resist at what cost
your mind is my slave,
you’ll get what you want
your desire is your grave,
a workmate who finds the fact that I'm an alcoholic most amusing, asked me what it was like, I gave him an abridged version. For his sheer impudence I would of loved to of regaled him with this poem, though in truth I think the sentiment would of been lost on him.
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