I need a place I can write in and rent some room for patience. Addicted to the temporary highs of my lines I write, snortin, looking for something I can't quit. Is this it? Optimism and obstacles I both talk it and live it, hill climbin real talk minus Milton, continental like Hilton morning meals.
Sippin words of entrapped tears to be sincere, fears of letting go then letting off my soul-esteem on those who don't deserve the latter. Laughter suppressed by antidepressants, I guess how you feel really comes down to decisions cause nothing I took made a difference, illusions at it's finest.
Often seen as good friend, nothing more for too long, I guess it's safe to say or stay within words reach of others. Blowing smoke of the feelings I spoke to love hoping the contact don't make me choke, but it has. The past has my presence atop it's contact list, even with block attempts the number always changes ending in 143.
Looking for that all time high that I can buy but God is the dealer and my plug is in heaven. So I head to a poetry jam where the first place prize is a spot in heaven. Judge by Langston Hughes's and Maya Angelou's, will these drugs I speak on get me through or leave me feeling used.