confessions of the damned (no answers)

06 Jan


confessions of the damned (no answers)

pt. 1


you know,

I got lost some five years ago

when you still had devotion in your eyes for me

when I could still see the terrestrial souled refulgency as eventuality

believing in it like a restless, loyal pup

I would growl and act possessive

and you could still be fooled by the sharpness of my teeth

now, over the time that’s passed

you’ve figured out that I was just a guard dog

with no bite

you could beat me all you want

and you did

and I took it

and I licked your hand

and you got bored

feeling sold on a false promise

and now I rarely really write

and still I look for you to either put me down or tether me again

pet me on the head

keep me motivated, well fed on fantastical ambition

like a good woman should

had she still had devotion in her eyes

now I roam, howling, looking for a home


like all the rest of my poetry invited into orthodoxy

but currently it’s gotten worse

and I’ve forgotten how to sleep without a drink

or without you

and now I get to fuck but barely fuck

it’s burdensome enough when it’s not you

but with the drink there’s whiskey dick to contend with too

and I can only find a vestige of intimacy in the morning

before the first addition to my coffee

which used to be for fun

then it was for sanity

then it was just merely maintenance

(like the dope habit I once had)

now it’s just to feel the rot inside

to feel some goddamn something

to feel… like I’m working on the screaming in my head

and these aren’t turgid demons, trust me

if they were – we’d get along much better

you know, I’ve befriended many in my past

no, these are just judgments

detached, pronounced

the odds are much too futile now to postulate the same credulous parlay

for all of this to work

for all of this to live

my hope, and no, it’s not for love –

it’s dwindling

it’s so much easier to fade

to lie around, to smoke alone

to keep on drinking without any more taste left to vanquish

to miss you

and hate it whenever you ask me why I do


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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings

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