Nobody wants to be that person

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Indefinte.

Submitted: June 11, 2008

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Submitted: June 11, 2008

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No one wants to be the Meth addict, the freak, the dependent.
No one wants to be the person leaned over puking up everything they've hated about themselves.
No one wants to be the person needing something more from life then what they've been offered.
No one wants to be that person.

We hear stories and views from these people, these freaks, and we feel bad for them. Some of us don't, but most of us do. Those poor poor people. Those people who need something to control, those people who lost control over themselves. Those poor, indefinite, people.

How could they ever live like that.

No one ever wants to be the fucking addict snorting and puking and living life in the shadows of the do gooders and the spotlights of fucking society. No body ever wants to be the fucking bums of this world.

No one ever wants to be sitting at a table face to face with your worst enemies, the people that care for you. No one ever wants to be in that position. No one ever wants to admit to loving shoving their toothbrush so far down their throat they could probably fuck uranus with it. We never admit that the music playing in your room wasn't a motivator, but a device used to cover up the noise of you coughing your fucking brains out. Choking on everything you ever loved as your senses are implanted with barf and the need for drugs. Those all so satisfying deeds.

Nobody wants to be that person.

No one wants to be the person so fucked over by drugs that sometimes life seems like this defective void.  A piece of shit waiting to be kicked off to the curb, stranded, helpless until some other deed blesses your life with something useful.

You're fucking case of bulimia, your fucking strung out brain.

Nobody ever wants to be you.

Nobody gives a shit about your life. It's never, I want to help you not feel this way, it's always, don't you realize this is bad for you. A few rotten teeth, a few fucked up days and regretful times. A few unbearable nights, a couple days where you feel like you shouldn't be pretending this isn't happening, a day or so when you feel that you could confide in someone and ask them to reason your logic. Those strangers can answer better than you the question why you're fucking falling apart, although we never say this.

It's always, you can do it. You can get better. Have faith.

It's never, nobody wants to be that fucking person that can't put themselves back together.


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