at a certain point not asking for help becomes an invitation to let new habits in they sink their teeth deep into my skin so expectations are forever lowering forces conspire though i’ve got big ideas no matter how dog-eared something you said took four months to hit home but now i am alone and it takes hold restraint is not a cure it cannot close the door i cannot close that door i look upon its frame the spirit starts to wane and this is how the other half lives the other half lives sadness grows less frantic maddeningly tantric it growls and overflows it envelopes it threatens to congeal promising to heal and i am at my best unconcealed desire is a curse that depends on its reverse i’m realising that’s so much worse restraint is not a cure i’m slipping through that door again restraint is not a cure i’m passing through the door again the other half lives it mercilessly persists the other half lives it mercilessly persists

i’ve got poetry in me waiting patiently to be plucked up from the grief and rendered into something less extreme made universal relatable to all so i can keep this from bubbling surfacing when i have company i’ve been desperately seeking something everyone was seemingly throwing away and i am not my father’s son cus when i drink i hate who i become then i drink and hate who i become "just because i don’t love you doesn’t mean that i don’t care what happens next" i felt a shiver run through me when i let you back in i did it just to feel again but now i think i’m bordering on somebody that i could almost want to be if i acted responsibly for once if i got clean and cut you out and lived my life without questioning if i think that i will ever get to be happy again cus jesus christ i am alone again here i am i am alone again i’m reminded constantly of how much i still crave to be desired by my enemies ex's friends and people on the street but i’m doing alright now my days all start alike forlorn as i am torn up from the brief respite that sleep can bring well-rested i begin again another day to waste away until i am wasted again at least this way i have autonomy it means that much to me even though it's paralysing i know i would rather be the driver of a crashing car than passenger to somebody who thinks they know what’s best for me but i’m guessing that’s the next step on the path to recovery submission to authority and as long as that choice came from me in time i think that's best for me so maybe i am not my father’s son but if i keep this up will i become? and if i give this up do i become? either way i am my father’s son

selflove is not self interest it's not even preservation there’s no love in selflove there’s only desolation compulsion or addiction it's a pleasureless dimension it's sordid desecration unbearably effacing this routine debasement affords no consolation

maybe tonight i will finally work up the courage to defenestrate launch myself spiralling down to the ground the earth never seemed so sweet to me mum's gonna be so mad i hope i don’t have to take all that guilt with me i hope that i excel sell in the next place but if not oh well and if the fan spinning above me should plummet please tell them it was during the final chord of a rousing crowd pleaser who still cheeringly parade the streets with my prostrated corpse and just like the song ‘i looked all over town’ and found there was nothing worth sticking round for this pain never lessens so up to the heavens a clown ascends