Freudian Slip at 4AM
(don't) Forgive me, for I know not what I've done
i rack the depths of my conscious mind
hoping to find
what the unconscious hides.
exploring the mysterious deep caves
of my psyche,
which hoards buried trauma chests
and rejected repressed reminders
of drunken debauched deeds
those awful humiliating blurs
in the midst of slurs,
and stumbling carcasses
in crumbling grog bars.
where the incongruous combination
of chemicals digested in whiskey pools
of my otherwise empty stomach,
and blood rushing to my heart ache
taking a turn for the worst.
those intoxicating devices
which grip and control without license
act as my puppet master,
for whom i dance without order.
there is no clarity in that dooming bliss
where the infidelity of a lustful kiss
is a casual handshake in a red dress.
nothing good ever happens after 2am,
and 3am is the devil’s hour
while 4am knows your secrets
and riddled repressed regrets.
blinded by denial deduced from delirium
I still despise myself the next day
whilst in disarray,
silently craving the grave
before the sun sets on my fragile body.
self-loathing isn’t a charming game to play
but it is the tormenting price you pay,
for not all is bliss if you bathe everyday
in the pools of folly.
