Diary of Dying Man

Rhythmic story about the struggles of addition, withdrawal and depression.

 

Part 1.

Rattle, Rattle,

Pills Shake in the bottle.

Wondering if I should throw some back,

Or just wait.

 

Everyone asks if I’m Ok and I’m lying,

But after a couple bouncers, I’m smiling.

I start to float a little,

And then I fade away.

 

I know I have an addiction,

I’m not lacking conviction.

But counselors can’t help me,

I don’t think anyone can.

 

So I’ll lay down,

And try not to end up underground.

Death doesn’t scare me,

But I’m pretty sure Hell doesn’t have my fix.

 

Part 2.

I hear my pills in the bottle,

And my hand is resting on the throttle.

I know I shouldn’t be driving,

But I’ve never been one to listen to reason.

 

My shoe grazes the gas pedal,

And my boiling blood weighs down like metal.

I’m high as can be,

And I’m ready to push the limit.

 

With little hesitation,

I floor it.

My heart and soul go racing into the night.

I swerve left and right,

Not a care in the world.

My energy is flowing and rising,

My turns are late,

And would be fatal if the roads weren’t abandoned.

 

But I drive on,

Watching the full moon fade in the sky.

And as I go faster,

I see the sun peek over the hills,

And light floods the roads of my once dark joyride.

 

“Faster, Faster.”

I say to myself,

And my mind wanders to my pills on the shelf.

Just one more pop could give this a new dimension of thrill.

So, I fly on,

Towards my excuse of a home.

It’s a miracle that the only scars form my journey,

Are the scratches on my car.

 

Part 3.

Money is flowing in and out of my pocket,

Any pills I can get my hands on, I put in a safe and lock it.

Just saving my income,

Living s****y paycheck to s****y paycheck,

Always talking to my dealer before the grocer.

 

Some nights are long and hungry,

But thank God there aren’t many nights sober.

I’d rather float off my couch

And see and hear what’s not there,

Than cry myself to sleep in darkness.

 

But every week,

My fix gets a little harder to come by.

So, I’ve stepped up,

Became more aggressive.

I’m breaking rules,

And definitely not living in righteousness.

People aren’t dying,

But they’re definitely getting closer by my hand.

 

Part 4.

I can’t remember the stories of my scars anymore,

Too many to keep up with,

Not to mention that my energy and self-esteem are below the floor.

 

I’d be happier if I could throw some back,

But that’s not possible.

I’ve been sober for almost a week,

Not by choice, it’s not the vision I seek.

 

Kicking a*s just can’t get you a score anymore,

And I was a master of both sides.

But now I wish I could go back to simpler times and joyrides.

Now, my wounds bleed and my eyes leak,

Just trying to fight withdrawal.

I have to make some sacrifices,

Or I won’t live at all.

 

Part 5.

Sobriety is Hell.

Two weeks on the ground,

Instead of in the air.

Other people are happy,

But I can’t be and that’s not fair.

 

My emotions are a coaster,

Slightly sad songs on the radio break me down,

And my anger is always easy to be found.

 

I’d pray,

But the only thing I’ve ever committed to is my fix.

God wouldn’t hear my prayers anyway.

 

Until life gets easier,

I’ll cry by the stereo,

And hope to hear something I know.

Part 6.

My radio is the source of my insanity.

Listening to crazy songs while suffering,

It’s pushing the point of my humanity.

I used to only cry,

Now I scream out.

“One more score. One more to throw back.”

I shout,

During the loneliest of nights.

 

But who am I fooling?

Every night is long and lonely.

I can’t smile here on the ground.

I need something to lift me up into the air,

Or I might just tie a rope around my neck and jump off a chair.

 

Happy songs usually find our smiles,

But not mine.

I’ll smile when I somehow find a way

To float again.

 

Part 7.

One month without going airborne.

And in that time,

My wrists have been stained red,

But I don’t care about what’ve bled.

I have rope burns around my neck,

And panic attacks that need to be kept in check.

 

My condition only worsens,

And I can’t imagine anymore sins.

Music of any rhythm tortures my soul,

I need my fix to make me whole.

 

Desperation has pushed me to prayer,

Crazy, Yes I know.

It must be a sight,

To watch me beg God for pills.

 

Just one more flight,

That’s all I ask.

 

Part 8.

I can’t take another damn day,

My life won’t go on this way.

Life gets hotter than the fires of Hell,

Without any pills to let me touch the sky,

But, I’ve only attempted suicide a few times,

Nothing major,

Just a spur of insanity,

Every now and then.

 

Music has become my enemy,

I don’t know why I even listen,

When any melody drives me up a wall.

 

“Lord take me!” I cry out.

“Take my damned soul!” I shout.

I’m longing for a trip in the air,

But I’d settle for a trip down.

 

Part 9.

They would soon find my body, hanging from a ceiling fan.

Just another stupid junkie, no surprise to the policeman.

 

My radio was left playing the Sound of Silence on repeat,

And my home is tidy and neat.

 

My note was short and sweet,

Matching the tone of the gentle beat.

 

“Bury me in a shallow grave.” I say.

“So it’ll be that much easier to fly away.”