SHun

Expression

Externally, I have used bright, shiny, loud material possessions to offset my insecurities. After all, who cares what the inside looks like, right? Nobody can see that. The truth is, the only people that can see the inside are usually the only ones that matter. Whether it was how I looked in a certain outfit, how I looked in a certain automobile or motorcycle, how much noise either of those made, how I looked with a certain female companion, how big of a tip I left, how much weight I lifted at the gym. There was always something I was trying to prove or someone I was trying to impress or compete with for whatever reason. I wanted to be the guy that made you think I had it all together. I wanted you to ask yourself how I earned that or why is she with me or how strong I was or how handsome I was. I wanted you to want to be me, which is ironic, because most of the time I don't even want to be me. So yeah, I guess I could be a little flashy. A little exaggerated. A little competitive. A little boisterous. The problem was, there came a point where I could no longer afford or maintain a level of materialism that overcompensated for my feelings of less than. Hell, if I could have just stuck to the inferiority complex with excessive overcompensation I probably would have been better off. If my "mental health" and "substance abuse" issues wouldn't have continued to progress I was on track for maybe not prestigious, but at least respectful career developments and financial stability. I could have made a decent living. When my security blanket was gone so was my justification, my outward portrayal of all things I attempted to hide, and the only sense of self-worth I had, I essentially gave up. I mean, how I can have a value of life when I have nothing of value in life. So, if I couldn't impress you and leave you something to think about, I was going to disgust you and give you something to talk about. But I had a good run right? I was able to keep the charade up for a long time. I was able to hide behind the smoke and mirrors for years, giving everyone the illusion that maybe, just maybe, I'm not as bad as everyone suspected. Again, it was only the ones that didn't matter that couldn't see through me. To those who really cared, they tried to be supportive and accommodating. Who am I kidding though? I was the blind one. I thought I had them all fooled when they were in preparation for the worst case scenario. My mother never slept at night because she was always waiting for the called that I had been arrested or found dead. On occasion, when I would call her at night to relieve her concerns, I could always hear the trepidation in her voice as she said "hello". I'm such a horrible son. As I continued into disintegration and thought to myself that I finally hit rock bottom, I had no idea how far away from bottom I was. Or how deep my bottom could get. New low's always find a way to sink me deeper into my pathetic existence.
​I don't know when or why I started writing poetry. Sure, I've used a poem occasionally to send a girl to hopefully get me laid. Let them know that behind the rough exterior, there was a sweet and sensitive side of me that they could be the first to experience. I've also used it to apologize to said girl after I royally fucked up. Again, to accentuate a softer more forgivable side of me. The side of me that wasn't the cause of my royal fuck up. The side of me that you fell in love with. The side of me that would never lie, cheat, steal, betray, use, abuse, or hurt you and I promise it will never happen again. Has it worked? In both aspects, yes. Was it all bullshit? Probably not. I mean, if I could just write without emotion and make it so believable to negate the original violation it would make me one of two things. A sociopath with a creative and artistic side or a writer of professional caliber that I should be able to earn a few buck doing it. A sociopath I have not been diagnosed as. Although there have been times I have had concerns that prompted me to do my own research to see if I fit the qualifications of one. As a writer, I don't think I'm that good at all. Unless I am writing something for someone with selfish motivations, very little of what I've written I've shared with anyone else. There have been a few poems I've written that I thought were decent. Some even stood out to where I thought they were exceptional. The problem was, the theme or underlying meaning behind most of my poems either pain or sadness. Anger or hatred. If my poetry was a form of true expression, I had some seriously negative and disturbing connotations in which I viewed myself. And in the last two or three poems I've written recently, and I am fairly impressed with how they turned out in all honesty, I die in the end. It's how I'm feeling. It's accurate. Valid.
​Pain Before Pleasure​was a collection of poetry I started shortly after I moved to California. I was alone, uncomfortable, and about to begin a relapse that would not last long before my actions would land me in jail for nearly a year. Although I was not a stranger to run-ins with the police, back east I never spent more than a few hours in jail. I love the east coast. They save jail for real criminals. Me, I'm just a recovering hope to die alcoholic. More on my feelings on that later. Many pieces would be written while I was in custody and post release while I was finishing off my sentence in a court mandated inpatient drug and alcohol rehabilitation program. This was also the first time I was incarcerated for an extended period of time, it would unfortunately not be the last though. Back to the original thought, the title and overall theme alone tell as much about me as the contents within. The title, Pain Before Pleasure, was uncharacteristically optimistic in which I attempted to show some growth and change within myself. That I was through being consumed with the negative thoughts and feelings that were such a distraction and caused so much destruction to me and my life. Inside and out. I even think there was a poem to my mother and father in there that I wrote for them individually for a present or a birthday or holiday or something. I'm pretty sure half my motivation to write the poems was because I was too broke to just buy something or too lazy to look for that perfect gift, at the perfect price, with care and thought, and in enough time to mail back east without being late (not that that really mattered because one year I wished my mother happy birthday nearly a month late, more on that later). Anyway, the book has two chapters. Chapter 1 Pain (because pain always comes before pleasure, if pleasure even comes at all), and chapter 2 Pleasure (again, I was uncharacteristically optimistic or using the positive persona as a distortion of the truth which is probably more accurate than being optimistic). Ironically, of the 50 or so (???? HOW MANY POEMS WERE THERE ) POEMS, MORE THAN 40 (????? HOW MANY?????) were in chapter 1. Chapter 2 could have been easily misplaced or not even written. The title could have easily been Pain Before More Pain, but I was either thinking of a best seller or concealing the true truth. Smoke and mirrors, fake it till you make it, wolf in sheep's clothing, dead man walking, whatever analogy you want to take as the assumption feel free. Considering I hated most of the things I wrote, I highly doubt being a best seller was my motivation. This book, on the other hand, has potential. See, I'm still lying to myself, but at least I'm holding on to a shred of hope. Yeah, hope, let's call it that. Dammit, I haven't seen that book in years. I was genuinely proud of two or three pieces in there. One titled Angels and Demons I actually envisioned me on Russell Simmons Def Poetry Jam, which was big at the time. I even remember looking online for open auditions and if I recall correctly were in LA in the at the time recent future. Once again though, it sounded like a good idea. Just like that book. Just like this book. Who am I kidding? I don't even know if that book still exist. Stupid me had the final draft as a .PDF in my old work email address that got disconnected before I could retrieve the copy. Why I didn't just put it on the hard drive, I have no idea. I also had one hard copy that I printed out and the last time I saw it was at my fathers. It was in the house we were renting. Upstairs, in the built in book case, bottom shelf. A few years ago I asked him if he's seen it or remembered seeing it when he moved or if he could look for it. He said I still had some boxes in the attic and I could look for it if I wanted to at some point. This was before my actions that resulted in him banishing me. I don't blame him. I miss him though. He's everything in a man that I wish I was. I'm sure I'll touch on that more in later chapters. The boxes are still there though. Maybe one day I'll live like an adult with a place of my own and some security and independence and I can pick up the few boxes at his place in which I have no idea what I have there, and I could finally get rid of that 4ft. x 4 ft. (the smallest unit they had) which has the rest of my worldly belongings (which is mostly clothes) and my mother pays $23 a month because sadly I can't afford that. Even sadder, the 6 or 8 months I've had it has probably cost her more by now than the value of the contents in it. My justification that is all I have left. My realization, what I have left is worthless. Shit, wait! Did I see a copy of Pain Before Pleasure on my old Compaq laptop that has a virus and a fried hard drive? Did I show that to someone recently? Think, think, and think. If I could only call her and ask. More on her later. Mental note, check that laptop or remember that as an excuse to break the silence. Even though she made it extremely clear that I was more trouble than I was worth and she no longer wanted to know anything about me. I can't believe I blew that. Dammit! Yeah, there's going to be a whole chapter on that one. More probable, when I'm long gone and forgotten someone will stumble on it by accident, because let's face it, I barely exist to most by this point. What chapter am I on? Expression? I'm so far off topic. What the hell was I even talking about??? Pain Before Pleasure, right? Focus up.
​My father helped me take the photograph for the cover. After a dozen or so unflattering close ups of my tearing eye, I decided to take a different creative approach for a cover photo. Without preparation or explanation I removed my watch (which I were 98% of the time), rolled up my sleeve, and turned my closed fist over exposing my inner wrist and forearm. The three Chinese characters tattooed on my left forearm that read money, power, respect (at 19 when I got it that was what I thought the key to life was. I was doing more cocaine than Tony Montana and The Lox dropped their same titled hit single which was often blaring out of the 12" subwoofers that were mounted behind the front seats of my Camaro) were not the focus point. The two inch scar I made with a piece of broken glass after I smashed whatever it originally was while in a drunken rage in my room, at my mother's house, while a few of us were partying. I cut my wrist, in front of a couple of friends, and waited for a reaction. I vaguely even remember laying on the floor and pretending, or hoping, to pass out as I waited for the blood to start gushing out of my veins. The incision was superficial and didn't even need stitches. Hell, it didn't even need a Band-Aid. The gushing blood or loss of consciousness never came. Neither did the care or concern from my, at the time, closest friends. The subsequent scar, which is barely noticeable (although I have been known to hold my hand in certain positions, at certain times, in certain companies, for varying motives) does looks slightly more impressive up close with a professional grade Nikon zoomed in on it. My father, who I'm 99% on that he knew nothing of my "attempted suicide (coughing while uttering bullshit under my breath as I use that term)", I don't even think he saw it at first. He must have still been focused on the tattoo. Because if he did notice the scar, he was not overrun with questions or alarm or intrigue or even a flinch, wince, or second glance. Not even through the exaggerated representation through the high power lens of his professional grade Nikon did he even acknowledge the self-inflicted wound. He probably saw it for the pathetic and undeserving paper cut that it was in actualization. No wait, I take that back. I think he just kind of shook his head subtly, probably trying to mask the smile of mock and stupidity in which the whole scenario was the only thing it was worthy of, both for the initial action and the embellished representation of the photograph and what I was using it for. My father though, always calculated, composed, and seemingly apathetic (and I say that with no resent as this is the type of man he is. A great man my father is) moved the camera around as he attempted to capture the image in the best light and angle for maximum representation and effect. My father has never been one who was big on symbols or expressions of affection. That is not the way he was raised I guess, or the type of relationship we ever had. But I have a great man as a father. He told me he loved me when I was a kid every week when he called. And he always called. I never questioned if my dad loved me, because even though we didn't say it often or hug or things like that, I knew he did. Key word... did. Today, I believe I lost the love and respect of my father and I don't blame him one bit. I deserve to lose him. I don't deserve a man like him as a father. He deserves better than me. I'd be embarrassed and distant if I was my son to. I did set the bar EXTREMELY low for my sister though. She was a good girl fortunately. I haven't talked to her in 6 years now. I guess she's still doing well though. It doesn't really matter what she does. Anything short of performing bestiality porn on the internet or holding the title for world's largest gangbang, she could do no wrong in comparison to the mark I established for her. She should be thanking me actually, I mean, I gave the expression daddy's lil' girl a whole new meaning for her. You're welcome Jen. I'm sure she doesn't even admit to us being related. Good thing we were only half siblings. Anyway, according to my mother, my father does love me. I miss my father.
​Pain before pleasure. It makes sense. It fits. It's valid. You can't understand or appreciate pleasure, until you've felt pain. But why is pain always the alpha emotion. I guess pain before a glimpse of pleasure followed by more merciless and endless pain just doesn't flow as well or implies a sense of hope which is undoubtedly false. I have little hope. Most people don't root for the bad guy. Most people want the villain to be captured. The helpless to be rescued. The hopeless to fall in love. Spoiler alert. This is not how my story ends... Ever.
​If poetry was to be an escape for me or a way to express my pent up feelings that consume my ability to be positive or prevent my overall outgoing persona and smile educing personality, than like just about everything else I do, I'm doing it all wrong too. Rarely do I feel relieved or enlightened or empowered that I put into words some deep dark thought or feeling I couldn't find the words to express or the appropriate audience to express it to. There is little secret to how I feel or the hatred I possess towards myself. I don't hide it. I can, temporarily if I need to. For work, for sex, for personal gain. Only when I want to will I disguise my true colors. Even then though, it's only temporary before my true colors start shining through. And when they do they are blinding. Like a solar eclipse or medusa while on her period and withdrawing from crack. Everything is temporary. Everything always has been in my life anyway. Except for pain. Pain is permanent. There is no mystery about my feelings towards myself to the few who know me intimately. There is no question that actions have served as identification for the feelings I have towards myself for those who knew/know me superficially. Because the masquerade can only prevail for so long. Hiding behind the smoke and mirrors is relenting. Sooner or later the smoke dissipates and the mirrors shatter to a million pieces. And in the aftermath, cowering in the shadows and buried under the rubble and ruins, lurks the real me. The hurt me. The troubled me. The sad me. The abused, broken, angry, scared, regretful, remorseful, miserable, self-absorbed, self-aggrandizing, self-confident-less, self-conscious, self-conscience, self-controless, self-defeating, self-destructive, self-doubting, self-esteem-less, self-hating, self-indulging, self-inflicting, self-loathing, self-pitying, self-reproachful, self-respect less, self-sabotaging, selfish, useless, hopeless, worthless, and all the other self, me, and less "ME's" in which I envision myself to be. With all the proof, history, war stories, and second hand corroboration to prove nothing less. My poetry just seems to bold, italicize, highlight, and intensify everything negative in which I see myself. Poetry acts as a catalyst to an already disturbingly profound disposition. Which if gauged by my recent writings is starting to set off internal red flags because I'm dying in more and more of my writings. The content is not an exaggeration by any stretch of the imagination. I'm not optimistic. I am pessimistic, but not by definition or reasoning. What I consider myself to be is a realist, and with my reality, who could be anything but pessimistic? When I write I don't write fantasy or make believe. I don't write about what I don't know or what I don't feel. My writing is a direct reflection of how I'm feeling or what I'm going through which is why I can't disregard or misinterpret these manifestations of my suicidal ideations. This is far beyond a cry for help or attention seeking exhibitions. It's not that I have the intention to kill myself. It's not that I have a desire to die... usually, although it can increase exponentially and circumstantially. Recently, however, my willingness to live plays a constant and extreme mental gladiator battle with my infatuation to die. My recent writings make me feel like Kenny from South Park. I'm literally dying in every episode. In every poem. Under sound mind and judgment I have little to be concerned about. It's the moment I am not under control of my present state of mind and physical being and emotional wellbeing that I must yield the most caution to. And with my history of chronic relapse, three year minimum prison sentence if I lose my rapidly upcoming trial, hopeless and irreparable outlook of my near and far future, hyper focus on everything and anything I don't have in my possession or desire for my satisfaction, and minimal to zero impulse control that I can actually envision myself doing something without reasonable or rational cognition and with irreversible consequences. Death can only be cheated so many times before it claims the body. Shit, it has already claimed my mind.
​I suppose it doesn't matter how and in which form I use to express myself. The style and format just convey the message of the corruption and devastation that lurks within me. If I was an artist I probably wouldn't be able to depict the beauty and detail of Michael Angelo did with the Sistine Chapel. No, I'd probably resemble the abstract and dismal imagery of an unknown and unwanted starving artist who paints with cigarette ash and toothpaste that provide the best provisions for the colors that he needs and can afford to create his black and white nightmare that can barely be discerned as art over trash to the critics, buyers, and admirers of "real" art who are insulted by the lack of effort and skill from their perceptions and assumptions as the artist stands next to his masterpiece screaming in his defense and interpretation of which he captured his true emotion and sensation in his eyes; yet is regarded as an uninspiring and unappealing atrocity in the eyes of the ones who mean so little in reality, but mean so much by convention.
​If I was a musician I highly doubt I would have the composure poise and classically refined ambiance or the coolness and commendation of a title which is their given birth name such as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Unfortunately, I'm more of a mad genius with a chip the size of the Grand Canyon and the weight of the world on my shoulders with an inferiority complex who has been shunned by a life that predestined me to fail a society that rarely forgives and never forgets and who is hated by more people for invalid or incorrect reasons than is accepted and embraced by an unintimidated and unbiased minority whom genuinely can understand relate to and appreciate strife and struggle and anger and pain and that stand up for who and what they believe in regardless of the opposition like one Marshall Mathers, a.k.a. Eminem (whose talent skill and artistic ability I truly respect and admire).
​If I was a famous actor I would not be an A-list icon like Denzel Washington whose timeless and authentic representations he creates of the characters he portrays, always exuding theatrical brilliance which is often barely acknowledged, and even more rarely rewarded. I would probably be Heath Ledger, who at one point in his short yet distinguished career showed that he possessed so much talent and potential that radiated from his performances that was oblivious from a few of his award winning performances that helped solidify his mark on the silver screen. A mark that can now only be left to question and speculation of if the fame and fortune proved to be too much of a convenience to have the means to fuel a potentially fatal relationship between two character flaws that both possess qualities of quantity for stimulation. One being gluttonous, or having a persistent and voracious appetite. The other, insatiability, which is in comparison to an appetite that is virtually impossible to satisfy can act as an antagonist with the former as it challenges and provokes the other for more and more and more and more. With complete disregard for the substance being consumed or the amount that it has indulged in. This inability of failure to recognize and moderate consumption based on the bodies innate abilities of communication and reciprocation does not allow the appropriate sensations and reactions to occur physiologically, but gauges the intake based strictly on the amount that is at one's immediate disposal. Because neither of the conditions have no boundaries and knows no limitations when drugs are introduced into the equation the ending result from lacking an internal off switch and an inability to find gratification in moderation can cause one to far exceed upon intake what the human body is capable of handling or processing. One could also take an alternative position into the untimely death of Heath Ledger. Possibly it was not the convenience of the fame and fortune, but the constraint that came from the constant pressures and increasing expectations from both external and internally influences. When one displays their capabilities to maximum potential, finding a way of replication that can aid in the intensification of irrational imperfections triggering a long lonely walk down a road of ever increasing depression. Maybe feelings of an ability to not perform at a level of possibly a more seasoned actor, but also to a level that he himself proved that he was capable of performing to. A level in which he possibly lost the confidence or conviction to reenact in future performances. Often overlooked and rarely remembered by now, except by those he was closest to I'm sure. Whichever conclusion you find more relevant, or whatever conclusion you devise on your own, leaves one common denomination that can't be denied. The loss of Health Ledger was both premature and perplexing. But in a situation like this there are usually warning signs that can present themselves in a variety of ways. If someone has even the slightest premonition of an impending tragedy, it is imperative to seek help immediately in any way shape or form they can find. Time is usually of the essence and that someone could potentially prevent a tragedy like this from being repeated, and I firmly believe that.
​If I were an athlete I'd be less like the all-American, future hall of famer who out-studied, out-trained, and out-performed his opponents season after season as the franchise player and team leader for the New England Patriots, Tom Brady. I would have been built from birth to physical perfection and all the God-given attributes and instinctive skill mixed with raw talent and strengths that was virtually unparalleled by any of his competition throughout the National Football League, all to destroy a dream that many envision but only an elite few are blessed with the opportunity to engage in. A dream achieved was destroyed by a life in which he couldn't escape like Aaron Hernandez. Unfortunately, I was not a recipient of any genetic superiority, nor was I embedded with much natural skills or abilities to capitalize on. Ironically, the one thing me and Aaron Hernandez shared was the one thing that neither one of us overcome, I nailed the "downward spiral". Aside from the physical deficits I once again lacked with Aaron, Keith and I were not much different either. I very easily could of killed myself an nearly have on a number of occasions which will be told in more detail later. I can say with conviction and relief that I was not rich up to this point in my life. Because I am 100% that if I had actor money I would have been able to afford the bottomless appetite am capable of instead of the rations I could afford. ​ Of the two general similarities we could have had in common from the surface description above, I got 0% of the good and 100% of the bad. Admittedly, to a far lesser degree in consideration of the circumstances and the achievements accomplished prior to the inevitable destruction that I have come to accept instead of attempting to overcome but with the constant risks I engaged in by an immense consumption of unfathomable concoctions of poisons that served as my sole motivation and the majority of my daily sustenance day after day that I endured for nearly half of my life. Huh, imagine that, I just had a faint moment of optimism. I guess if I looked on the bright side, his descend to rock bottom was incomparable in comparison as he plummeted from the stars which is far greater a devastation than barely being able to throw myself of the curb. Hell, while we are at it let's let the optimism marinate as I think about how lucky I was not to be born tall, dark, handsome, and talented because with my chronic consistency of self-destruction that laid the foundation for the inevitable progression of my disease, I was able to peak at a point, which sadly, barely got me off the ground leaving the subsequent fall to be ferocious and unrelenting but immeasurable in comparison to the elevation where he briefly soared. So in actuality I should be grateful that I didn't hit jackpot in the genetic lottery. Well, I guess I can thank my parents for my genetic mediocrity that ultimately saved me from what could have been a much higher, although I doubt much harder fall from the top of my could have been limitless potential. Aside from the physical deficits I once again lacked with Aaron, Keith and I were not much different either. I very easily could of killed myself an nearly have on a number of occasions which will be told in more detail later. I can say with conviction and relief that I was not rich up to this point in my life. Because I am 100% that if I had actor money I would have been able to afford the bottomless appetite am capable of instead of the rations I could afford. With the celebrities I just described I hold similar qualities to all of them in one way or another. Which is sadly but usually the case for most. The differences or advantages one may have over another are not as consequential as they appear to be. There is a very fine line to walk that could lead any one of us down a path where we could easily end on either end of the spectrum. Surprisingly, the appetite for destruction is also the easiest to initially avoid but the hardest to subsequently overcome.
​A "downward spiral" that when I've listened to the stories of others that have managed to piss their lives away to some degree of severity that they have been demoted to the little league of life and shunned from the more fortunate, the less sick,. The "normi's" who chuckle in overconfidence and shake their heads in disdain as they use our afflictions to enhance their smug and cocky disposition and air of superiority based on a disproportioned and nearly humiliating comparisons. As you relish in your misappropriated victory, let me be the first to offer you a congratulations and I am so honored that it comes at my expense. Let me also be the first to tell you a more accurate depiction of the truth. A truth that you pathetically disguise by comparing dog shit to cat piss. Well con-grat-u-fucking-lations!!!! With all of the superficial advantages that you so obviously over exaggerate because you so desperately need justification to suppress and delay the obvious realities of how miserable and empty you are because you traded true happiness for artificial distractions that will never be able to replace the intimate connection that you so desperately desire. So once again, con-grat-u-fucking-lations because your best efforts and, quite honestly pretty pathetic, reliance on your misrepresentations of your external perfections can't even fake yourself into unnoticeably concealing your painfully obvious emptiness. So if you can't believe your lies, how can you expect to fool anyone else? And for your meager advantage you desperately exploit for validation, you are doing slightly better than a piece of shit. (Action: And as I lean forward into her, with an ice cold lock on her pupils in which I can virtually see right through the hollow torso into her empty soul and with a grin so wicked from the genuine satisfaction in my possession from the manner and precision of the verbal demoralization I just unleashed that brought Ms. Perfection, figuratively speaking, to her knees. I take two short quick inhales through my nose and crunch my face. I turn away and take a few steps in the opposite direction before I stop, pause for three seconds for the intensification of dramatic effect, and glance back towards her over my left shoulder. I calmly and quietly reiterate a fact that she undoubtedly failed to comprehend as she searched for any trace of inaccuracies in my depictions that she is painfully aware that there is not one. "And at the end of the day when you're lying in bed, looking at the ceiling, and trying to relish in your insignificant victory of being better than shit, than why do u still reek of cat piss." Before I turn away to walk away I see tears well up in her eyes and her bottom lip trembles to her chin as the information is passed through her ears and transported by electrical impulse via the nervous system to her brain where it is processed. I counted silently in my head and as I hit three I could see the exact moment she reached full comprehension of her situation as her knees buckled and the gut wrenching screams of heartache and agony bellowed over me for hundreds of yards as I confidently glided away (This story was a figment of my constantly wandering imagination. What triggered this rambling and nonsense, I have no idea.)
​As I was saying, for all the degenerates and derelicts who tried to impress me or relate to me because you think we have so much in common, or try to use me as a dumpster to get rid of your life altering and irreparable mistakes by confessing your sins to another so that you won't have to carry them on your own anymore. Or god forbid the person that tries to one up me because some of that shit I have experience while I was actively in my addiction often surpassed the bull shit and exaggerations of what these morons couldn't understand with their wildest imagination were often happening to me before lunch.
​Anyway, as my pathetic excuse for a so called life continued to spin violently out of control year after year, it lowered the easily realistic expectations I had once upon a time envisioned for myself. Expectations that were so modest that most "normal "people could obtain with minimal to moderate efforts, but would probably surpass my goals with ease as they worked towards an education, career, family, and financial security that would afford them feelings of pride and satisfaction as they laid their heads on their pillows at night. On the other hand, my family was fortunate enough to be abused and terrorized year after year on practically a daily basis and as they lived in a constant state of fear, shock, and unrelenting anticipation of the worst case scenario that they had already reached a conclusion of what that would be. All the while, the only thing they could do at this point was watch in fear as my transgressions increased in severity, shudder in disbelief as my consumption of toxins and poisons reached unparalleled quantities, and shed tears of a cocktail of constantly revolving emotions that could range from sadness to panic to anger and everything in ween as my transformation into a monster they could barely recognize and one that they could not restrain was perishing in front of their tear filled eyes. They had front row, ring side seats and all-inclusive backstage passes to the most horrifying traumatizing show that was ever written. It was the fight for my life. A battle that I had already been laughed at, beat down, knocked out, spit on, and paraded around for all to witness and maximize the humiliation and to display my near lifeless carcass as a trophy that symbolizes the unequaled domination that I was already in submission to but I was either too stubborn or too far removed from hope, dignity, or sanity to search for any shred of motivation or determination to throw in the towel or to get back up on my own two feet and try to fight back and to save my own life. Essentially that just seemed like it required more from me that I was willing to give, not that it would have taken a whole lot to deter me by this point anyway. What can I say? I gave up on myself way before anyone else did, but of course, there was no way I could admit that to anybody. Even to this day, which is a decade or more of years that I have been removed from the time, place, and state of mind from this account; the willingness and desire to resist the urges, temptations, and array of negative outlooks and potentially fatal introspects challenges me on a near daily basis. It is when these feelings present themselves with revengeful force, is when I have been able to write some of my most honest and compelling pieces. That is, if I don't succumb to the callings of my most hated enemy, my most damaging medication, my most challenging test to choose right over wrong. To appreciate the small and sometimes infrequent doses of pleasure that I can so easily overlook because I have lived without it for so long before that a desensitization developed to serve as some sort of primal defense mechanism that developed to protect me from my reality. It is the glimmers of pleasure that are slowly filling in the hollows of pain that have smothered me with reckless abandon and endless presumptions as I nurtured and enabled that debilitating sensation for so long. So long, that because of all the pain I have endured it is helping to restore the pleasure in which I so carelessly neglected. So carelessly disowned.
​For the poems that are in the following pages, the impression that they leave and the message they convey will hopefully allow the reader to identify with where I was in my head or what I was feeling in my heart. Much like I am trying to let my wandering mind continually keeps taking me off track and off topic as I am writing this. There is no specific order in which they appear, nor have I written any of them specifically for use in this chapter. In some of these I was in a compromised state from mind altering substances. In others, I was in a compromised state of mind altering depression. If I ever come across Pain Before Pleasure, I will insert some of the few more encouraging, or less dismal which is probably more accurately described, poems to prove I am capable of other thoughts and emotions besides those of utter despair. Unfortunately those moments are short lived and even further in between, nor are in my possession or anticipation for the near future. My poetry is an extension of my thoughts. My poetry is an expression of my feelings. My poetry is a reflection of my emotions.