The Great Empty (poem from March 20, 2019)

Tired but not sleepy. Weary but not exhausted. Alive but damn sure not living.

The pallor of death… The stench of meth… The grotesque face of a demon that is always moments behind you… Getting closer and closer so that at any moment you feel he could overtake you… Drag you to hell… It’s not just the drugs Holmes… That sonofabitch is there…

Maybe that’s where they go… The lost, the castaways, the fallen heroes of your misguided youth… The heroes that they took away.. To live in the belly of the beast… In the can… “En el bote”… In prison… “En la pinta”… Where all the legends one day go, and many have originated from… A home you will one day know of yourself.

The smells of sweat, speed, too much cologne, and the air desperation cling to you like cigarette smoke on a sweater. Don’t show any emotion… Don’t ever let anybody know how you feel one way or the other… Keep your cards close to your chest… Keep your advantage little brother.

Fear, Fear, Fear!… That is not something you have the luxury to afford… nor the stupidity to admit.

Life as you know it may end in a flash.. Or it may have ended already… Am I in purgatory? Is this a new form of hell? Has God forsaken me and left me in this place… All but forgotten and doomed to chase the same dollar, chase the same high, break my Mom’s heart and hurt the same people over and over again?

Day after day… Day after day… Groundhog Day if you will… Though instead of Punxsutawney Phil seeing his shadow or not… You collect money from the same people, shoot the same dope, plot the same moves, and stand in front of the same row of apartments with the same homeboys… Over and over and over… Pretending to be important, but you are just spokes in a giant wheel… A wheel way bigger than you can even comprehend.

Hate… Hate… Hatred!… That is not something you have the luxury to let go of. It keeps you safe… It keeps you warm at night… It allows you to plot and do unspeakable things.. Conscience free… In the name of hate. Sure, you hate for specific reasons, for being wronged in some way… Whether real, imaginary or merely implied…  But later on you will hate people you have never even met, for offenses not even done to you… But because your friends hate them more… Why though? Do they even know? It has just always been that way… Since everyone can remember. That’s just how it is homie.

It’s not even my problem… But I fucking hate the way you look, dress or even walk. Why? Because you’re foul… They told me you were… and the people I respect hate you… so now I do too.

“I am death. I am death! Do you hear me?!! I am death!!! I may be alive… but I assure you that I am death. YOU’RE NOT, BUT I AM.” You cling to this mentality.. You cling to this fact… Like a badge of honour. It carried you then.. It carries you still, to this day many years later. Deep inside it lives, festers like an infected wound… Like a microchip was implanted, so that no matter how much success you may attain.. How much you may change… It is always there… Lingering… Waiting to be activated… Biding it’s time until it is ready to rear its ugly head… Then when life hurts, and is confusing down the road…As it will be at some point…That I can guarantee… The comfort of the statement “I am death” it will settle you. The thought will bring you peace. Misguided as it may be…As we know that actual true peace comes only from God… Despite this, momentary peace, it will bring.

For all we want is to be able to sleep a little better.