A cocaine soul

my mind has always been in contradiction with what’s real,
and i’d lie to keep myself safe.
but i need something to give life to these words,
and make them look less of a page.
everything fake is said to unfold and dismount, so
“wait in line” he said, as i reached hell’s gate.
but it’s less of a gate, less of a way,
more of a path to daybreak.
what i mean is break, for the already broken,
for the thoughtless freak-show we portray.
everyday, all the time,
in literally every poem,
i’m pretending so maybe i’d be real someday.
but what’s real to me is not real to you,
which is why i turn to lying,
lying or lying dead or lying life or just lying.
or lying dead or lying wake or lying while i’m dying.
it’s lying one too many times that becomes the truth.
a truth isn’t true, it’s just your mind playing tricks on you.
but what’s true to me, isn’t true to you,
it isn’t even true to itself,
which makes the truth a bigger liar than a lie in itself.

think about it, feel it. feel your eyes bleed while you’re at it.
taste the blood, and the salt,
and the failure it brings.
feel the walls move in on you, no open-spaces exist.
feel your brain bang against the cavity of your skull,
dying to be anywhere else.
feel the urge to rip apart your chest and try to grab
at your heart, because you need to stop it from keeping
you alive.
feel the skin you tear off, the flesh stuck in your nails.
feel the fear of it not working because this nightmare is not in you,
it is you.