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