The Ifs - Negatives Read Count : 106

Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A
If I had just, 
what if...
if things had been
different...
The two letter word
one syllable
synonymous with 
condition that, 
provided that, 
supposing, assuming, presuming that 
as long as, given that 
in the event 
its if
if i roll it around in my head enough
if my thoughts lead me there
its that unattainable direction
if , if i let those thoughts go far enough I wonder
if the lines blurred enough between
my insecurities, my vanity
my never take the blame 
shamefully, unashamed 
narcissist paradox personality with suicidal tendencies
if i drank my fill of it 
mixed up and down 
my forever favorite 
and took that train all the way out 
the only way out now
if I could would I slip
right past my own grip on all of it 
the whats and who's that is 
those that could have been
if.... 
if I could just hang on a bit 
if i could just make sense of 
some or part of it, if I could turn back time and save them from my existence 
if my poly substance abuse
and dis-associative disorder 
could play nice for once. Stop pulling each others hair!
if weren't for that genetic predisposition 
An inherent inclination
for habit forming mind alteration and I’m 
double dosed both sides heaping and if not them 
itd be those socioeconomic circumstances,me and little sister were prison  system victims at 6 and 3 and when the parents got out they didn’t get far and still get kept down by the same badges different clowns. Same name discrimination probable cause probably cause my name is 4 letters 2 syllables synonymous with she’s definitely holding, or on something, 
that below poverty, white trash-ness
I cant spend enough fucking money to scrub off or find a label expensive enough to cover it up
if I had been wealthy 
instead of so goddamn good looking
if I hadnt been told since 
I was 13 years old 
my pretty face made up for it all 
and if i had just listened to those voices
and cashed in on that gold mine
I squeeze in my double zero designer jeans 
instead of working myself to nothing 
trying to maintain the weight 
of those price tags hanging from my 
all consuming habit, my emotional baggage,
my questionable relationship status, 
buckling under the strain of a no where fast
job and that reminder between my thighs that 
with a little less pride
if, I could just fucking stomach it
live with myself after it 
look myself in the eyes again
I wonder what shades of gray 
theyd be after that dissolution of self 

if... mistreated, misunderstood, mistaken
medicated pre teen to present day 
for more than my share of misdiagnosis 

My brain on lithium forgets about any and all those feelings and tells me none of that shit ever even happened. Prozac feels like the emotional equivalent of Novocain filled gums you can poke the absess as much as you want and feel absolutely nothing. Prozac is the greatest, says Who cares to any and all of my negative questions and comments. And the only trouble with that is we peace out just about everything bad, including my guilty conscious. And with out that the lines of perseption that blurr are no longer in my psyche but in wrong or right and impulsive decisions, makes it hard on my relationships. 

Hard to love on all of the above and impossible to get along with with out something and if I could just find a doc who could draw the right straw and dose me accordingly , if balancing my chemicals didn’t require sobriety
I might’ve been fixed but Prozac doesn’t lift a finger to help kick a habit and forgetting to take it’s emotional break down city and breaking something expensive in a tantrum is inevitable, so is hitting up some one you don’t even like so he can hit on you so you can shut him down again for no good god damn reason other than you’re bored and insecure. 

If..
If I could write with out rambling and say what I feel just be a little more cohesive, my journals wouldn’t be front to back scibbled out iledgable self portraits in poetry.
If I painted myself now I think black and blue and green like old bruising would saturate the pages. I’d paint me naked, my ribs jutting, my eyes sunken, tattoos, scars, concealer covered track marks and my perpetually tangled hair... burn the edges... paint me drowning.

If I could stop wasting loose leaf and get back to the point of this no ones gonna read it any way 8 pages of journal number cant count how many I’ve filled and thrown away, poetry? No I’m purging. 

My point was that a two letter word with one syllable did all this, and that’s all for negative, flip for positive

Comments

  • amazing

    Nov 30, 2018

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