i spit fire

i always wake up feeling the best at other people’s houses and other people’s beds. is it the person or is it the meds?
feed me sertraline and caffeine, inject me with all those pills  and potions. give me a reason to keep living by my struggling means, give me a reason to keep believing in notions
like love and happiness and all that shit that rest inbetween. in daydreams and nightmares and my struggling reality.
i question the meaning of my existence, wondering why i feel infinitesimal, abysmal. in this whole big vast universe of stars lost in constellations and in magazines, i just feel so small.

 
i decorate myself in colours as if by wearing them i will feel them. i dress myself in flowers like chrysanthemums.
i hold them to my chest, and i wish for them to be a part of me. i want flowers to come out of my mouth as pretty words of poetry
but my poetry is violent, toxic, a heroin. i inject brutal truth into paper with my ink and pen,
 
and in the end i’m still waking up in other people’s houses searching for a place to rest my homeless heart only to realise at some point we all have to part.
no matter the medicines and how strong the tea i drink, i never can escape my mind and the ability to think.
i’m cursed by verse and bestowed a gift i cannot rid, to feel and express everything i rather keep hid.
 
like 
 
do the stars fall like comets, hard and fast? once burning fire and now falling trash.
would you call me a lady lazarus because with hell on my heels and outside my door, i rose up again and lived the life i've sworn
heart and blood in my veins to the life i hate like a really bad girlfriend. she treats me well and takes care of me, but when i turn to bend
i may just break because i cannot sleep with all these thoughts in my head. the blankets are just there to keep me warm in my bed.
restless. i want to fade into these  lines that come out my mouth. i want to exist to exist. fade into sheets and cloth.
 
my phone is gone, but if i wear the headphones, maybe i'll mistake my own thoughts for music. sick beats and sicker rhymes, food for my mind and for my soul. hypnotic
energy is the onetwo onetwo of the rhythm that i bop my head to. it takes  over me and brings me back to the onetwo onetwo oneyou.
every poem i write and every thought i think comes back to the relationships and relationshits i've had. it makes me think of how i'm borderline happy but i'm borderline sad.
the chemistry of meeting and the gravity that drags me down depart my mouth in a suicidal leap of poetry but never touch the ground.
 
i'll pull my feet and heart up onto this foreign bed and use it to placate the restless hormones running through my head.
i'll pretend that it's home, and that the setraline and lometrigine do not make me but they do fix me:
the broken bits that don't make much sense; the broken hearts and feelings of displacement.
i'll spit out my fire, the comets resting in words behind my lips. i'll spit out fire, inhale my dire straits like oxygen.
 
let go of gravity and let the poetry relieve me. 
 
This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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