With No Place To Turn
Tossing empty bottles of cheap beer and cheaper liquor into littler baskets that hold little else.
Feeling bored, yet too dejected to do anything about it, all invitations rejected or simply ignored.
Feeling restless, yet lacking the motivation to delve into a once favorite pastime or to attempt something new.
Feeling alone, even with hundreds of acquaintances just a fingertip’s length at any given time.
Feeling hopeless, wondering how I’ll make it through another year, another week, another hour, another second.
With trembling fingers, I line up each of these precious pills between the bottles of my most coveted liquors.
I count each tablet, one by one, before dividing them by the day, by the hour, by the minute.
Out of my mind excited for the briefest of seconds while scared to the bitter core the next.
Like a fledgling chemist, I calculate the correct concoction of ingredients, appropriate dosages, and frequency of intake.
Figuring out the right combination I need for the high I’m hoping to achieve.
Am I aiming to get buzzed, high, drunk, plastered, or “forget who I am completely” sloppy?
After a day filled with hesitation, second-guessing, and regret, this is one last decision that I will make.
The sadness that swallows me at any given moment has become far too much to bear.
This relentless suffering has stolen from me any preconceived notion that life can still matter.
My journals are filled with half-written dribble; my floors are now cluttered with crumpled wads of paper.
This once fruitful outlet has all but dried up and I’m left with no place to turn.
Left alone with no place to turn…
Falling deeper into despair, I question everyone and everything; this misguided skepticism has sucked the life out of me.
Shoving lost friends and mistreated family members to the side, shutting out first those who appear to care the most.
Though this separation nauseates me, it seems far less painful than spreading my misery into their lives.
Drowning in the sorrows of solitude seems far less selfish than lashing out at anyone who lends an olive branch.
As I creep further and further into this endless, gloomy hole, soon, I believe, I’ll be unable to find my way out.
With trembling fingers, I line up each of these precious pills between the bottles of my most coveted liquors.
I count each tablet, one by one, before dividing them by the day, by the hour, by the minute.
Out of my mind excited for the briefest of seconds while scared to the bitter core the next.
Like a fledgling chemist, I calculate the correct concoction of ingredients, appropriate dosages, and frequency of intake.
Figuring out the right combination I need for the high I’m hoping to achieve.
Am I aiming to get buzzed, high, drunk, plastered, or “forget who I am completely” sloppy?
After a day filled with hesitation, second-guessing, and regret, this is one last decision that I will make.
The sadness that swallows me at any given moment has become far too much to bear.
This relentless suffering has stolen from me any preconceived notion that life can still matter.
My journals are filled with half-written dribble; my floors are now cluttered with crumpled wads of paper.
This once fruitful outlet has all but dried up and I’m left with no place to turn.
Left alone with no place to turn…
Depressed beyond belief, the speaker turns to substance abuse to erase his pain. What started as a temporary escape has since turned into a vicious cycle that is destroying his life. The drugs and alcohol are always there for him. After everyone fails him and he loses interest in all of the activities that used to please him, the drugs and alcohol remain. When everyone else forgets about him, the alcohol and drugs remember exactly who he is and exactly what he wants and needs. They become his best friend and his worst enemy at the same time. This is who he is. This is what he does.
Written in 2011
Copyright, The Poetry of Bryan Buser