The past is deceased.
Here I dwell,
in times unchanged,
within this private hell.
I'm a disgrace.
To the concept of family,
a self-centric hack,
downing, and drowning in Whiskey.
Grinding away at my teeth,
they erode away in decay,
in choler and frustration,
at my own mental state.
The constant analytical mentality,
driving into Insomnia,
being past out on the floor,
a luxury I can afford no more.
It's all an illusion.
How their disappointment grows,
but the feelings are real,
burrowed into my subconscious.
Contrived of distrust,
the outcome of my own design.
Joy eludes me,
when paranoia won't subside.
An opportunity may Blossom,
on the Morrow,
for clarity and peace of mind,
To dissipate endless sorrow.
©jonharris7
J