running on empty

the days we lost add up

but there is no way to stop it

we grow immune to the burn

and cant help but laugh at the way the body falls apart

the way your hand gets harder to open

and your sentences train wreck

like someone put your brain on pause

we find new lows every day

the over draft notices pile up

the pill bottles are always empty

and the bottle of whisky seems like a better idea every day

we get so tired of feeling so empty

when you've put in thirty years

and you've felt void of content the entire time

you get a little sick of it

and you start to not care what you have to do

to numb that ache

fill me with anything

they tell you,

"but look at all you've accomplished?"

"look what you've become because of it"

"you writing is amazing, you are capable of things people only dream about"

all in vain, unfortunately

no amount of accomplishment

no new skill set learned

has ever done anything to the way i feel inside

its all been a bi product of keeping myself busy

in order to run away from the feelings of misery and sorrow

its all been a distraction, aversion therapy

to keep my mind busy from focusing on the pain

i fill the script, but the script runs out

i go back to the doctors and she chastises me for not taking care of myself

like thats such an easy thing to do

like its as simple as it seems to her

i always feel like i could cry at any moment

it makes me angry, it makes me feel weak

it makes me feel like i can't control myself

and i should stay away from people and situations

where i would embarrass myself if i broke down

no matter how good i have it

i always feel sad

its always there

so when they find out about all the skeletons in my closet

i hope they can at least understand

that it was all just a bandage for my wounds

a temporary fix to a permanent problem

a way to clot the bleeding for just a few hours

before it starts again