raven0us

Regret filled breath of drunk driver. | May 4, 2011


New marks show on my arms daily.
Daily grinds leave my rinds a little more bruised by the moment.
Makers Mark marks the moment of annihilation,
inebriation.
Here in America, trailers and ghettos might be on Cops flaunting trashy conflicts,
but mansions are on snapped flaunting malicious murders…
pick your bad day.
See rich or poor, here in America,
“Alcoholism dirties generations.”
It’s beloved.
Muddy traditions waltz us in violent circles where we habitually hurt each other.
We say those things we should save for after 6 shots completely sober.
We’ve had the verbal filter of a bar fly since conception,
except our biligerence lives centuries instead of 24 hours,
it’s imbeded in our upbringing.
Family values consist of the class level of your in home bar and cynisism.
Families are just biological strangers.

Yet now I find myself privileged.
materialistically
spiritually
and most importantly with a loving intentional family…
despite my pickled habits.
But lately I find myself an interpersonal bull in a china shop.
I am still comforting chaos only digestible in small doses
and with chaos comes order,
it’s just that,
I am usually already gone before I can learn what that looks like,
but then it’s like;
would someone drunk behind the wheel really drive if they knew they were going to kill someone they love?

and see I intrigue just because of people’s need to guage their own personal range of fucked up..
like “how many strange words of hers do I relate to and when can I start to ostracize to optimize social acceptability?”

There is no accountability anymore.
But there never really was.
Just laws and structures created by you and I every time we find fear.
And my message may come across like the regret filled breath of a drunk driver,
but I make love.
with honesty.
I construct love from the wreckage.
Because after a crash,
not only the innocent die or get torn apart in the wreckage,
so do the guilty…
since, you know, they were also innocent once.
Oh and how that blurred vision feels so comforting
when through 20/20 it is so apparent you were actually the assailant.

We aren’t getting drunk on alcohol anymore.
It’s the lack of oxygen to our consciousness, our inebriated genes, the lack of faith in our step.

Tell me you’re not ready to stop breathing yet.

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    Mother Lover. <3

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