Asleep in the garden is where you'll find me now

I'm killing my heart.
breaking valves
heart hurt by
hard crash on
hard drugs
too rushed
come up
beats fast
I breathe loud
in my head
it rings metallic
eeee, it rings it rings
I breathe out
in
too hard.
water drips
sips of liquid
crystal methods
lungs claustrophobic
I'm killing my heart
Im sorry
Im sorry.
When you stay awake non-stop for so many days and nights and
afternoons hallucinations tend to permeate throughout the walls. Dreams
can't get out so they leak into your enlivened state. We start with
noises, voices. White walls with old cracks sparkle while I gaze. Add
48 hours
and nothing makes sense.
The appeal dies out and a general disgust is applied.
I get so bored.
Tired of thinking but you can't just stop. My stomach's going to eat
itself.
I get so bored.
Tasting crystal through my throat and mouth. To sleep and dream would
repeat my life.
I get so bored.

but let's work backwards.

I knocked boredom back and forth like gravel bits beneath me as
December dominated my brain. Months before the chemistry of my brain
was oddly rearranged and I met a girl I had no idea would become the
friend who knows me best.
In a dazed and cloudy Thursday I was forgetting the numbers that
released my locker when she kicked me for attention and a simple "hi"
and I smiled back too stoned to meet someone new in a proper way.
December devoured my mind and I spent time outside and online, catering
to multiple addictions while I learned the girl I'd met when stoned who
would later learn my sober side and stick around.
December December
The sun meant nothing. I'd stare at the moon but it wouldn't look back.
I'd lose concentration, I'd lose a whole day.
Wake up at 7pm and wonder where and when and what I was.
Days and nights awake but no boredom.
I'd blink eyes
and slip on ice
and always find something new.
slip on ice
and found life
to my liking.

Suddenly too sunny and humid we were selling possessions to feed our
obsessions to see just how far it could go. And though it was light
that day and not too heavy I sat so weary on concrete with cigarettes
and whiskey.
Moments remembered were muted and stagnant,
not full of emotion
but stale like a swamp.
Tipsy and tired I stumbled into the dead grass and did not get up.
Grass too dead to be sun baked and sharp it did not oppose my form or
presence. So I did not get up.
700 hours farther into existence I concluded I was in the conscious
world once more but I wondered what for
and why my house was crawling, covered with people. I cursed and
murmured too sick to be heard. Cursed and murmured, too sick
I couldn't think
I couldn't eat
but christ I could sleep. deep. dark. It was a step above the
physical.
So I tip my head and hardly hear the noise of what's around. Buried in
sound the eyelids flutter, I kick off my covers,
and in a feather weight float
of free life forgotten
I dreamt December
and nothing more.