The Fix
By James Bonds
See my pupils dilate
each time I self-medicate
I can feel my heart palpitate
as my lungs fill and deflate.
Death cannot wait
for me to enter that gate
No sooner than I fix
my blood and the heroin mix
the angels gather round to debate.
What to do with this broken soul
whose poisoned blood flows
where pain and memory froze
the man behind the curtain finally shows.
When I first prick my skin
ease that needle in
press the plunger on that warmth again
finally I am my own best friend.
I am mind-embodied
I cower from recovery
Shame covers me
because no one can ever love me
I am a gruesome discovery.
I am revealed when the
dancing flaming once more heats the spoon
my consciousness leaves the room,
was I born for this –
have I run out of life this soon?
This symbolism of self-hate:
addiction – is this portrait painted by pain
Heroin is not a balm for open wounds –
it is the reason the suffering remains.
I prick – I prod
I fix – I nod
this is how I feel close to God.
Whose Bones Are These?
By James Bonds
What do you do –
when you find out your dreams aren’t
worth the price of admission,
and your tears warned bystanders of the
pain ahead but no one would listen.
Whose bones are these –
covered in self-inflicted hideous scars,
when the ashes of who you were paint
the landscape of where you are.
Here I am again – the self-destructive
satyr you expect me to be,
I can tattoo over my scars – but there are
deeper wounds you see.
While all around me the Monsters are
salivating and choking on their own lust,
for me – scorching the fields of memory
are a must.
Trying to navigate the minefield that is
my traumatized soul,
I sit here digging through my own ashes –
Where did the better me go?
Was I really never born – or was I
something bad from the very start,
I now know the taste of tears – before
they leave my hideous heart!
I cannot become anything better than I
am now,
a faceless refugee from the carnage – I
just wanna survive somehow.
As memory applies pressure my heart wonders
if there’s a better way,
poisoning myself – fleeing the shame – hoping
tomorrow’s a better day.
Prayers unanswered – soul under siege –
conversating with the devil,
self-medicating – self-mutilating – therapy
on a whole new level.
Calming my nerves with substances aimed
at crippling the human mind,
self-loathing in self-destructive behavior
of the worst kind!
Life Interrupted (My Soul and I)
By James Bonds
My soul, I did not mean to break you
to color your world those sad shades of
heartache,
to exile us both to the edge of misery and
ruin – testing the mortal limits of how much
you can take.
Ours is now a life interrupted
I am a man and his soul going separate
ways,
there are no warnings between now and
my final moments –
I am slavish to these wasted days.
Now this pen is my needle and words are my
fix
I can’t even remember that vain voice that
led me to sacrifice,
I know that melodious hope has died
so this is how a man dies twice.
There are no footprints behind me
no debt of nostalgia to childhood places
as my senses collect all the contempt around me –
I see Monsters behind so many faces.
But there is far less of me now
my mind grinds time to a halt at the
genesis of memories which taunt me,
ours is an epidemic of feeling –
because the echoes of a life interrupted
haunt me.
Tears
By James Bonds
What will I feel if I choose to –
will it be the same self-hate or something new
horrified at what I see behind these eyes
I need a different view.
Have you ever been stoned on your own pain
strung out on the taste of tears
drowning in psychological quicksand
in a torrid affair with irrational fear?
My nihilistic self-defeat keeps me trapped in
distorted truth
which sprouts from a poisonous root
weeping for a soul calloused by a violated youth.
I have been made to suffer against my own
design
took heinous blame for someone else’s crime
now I peek through the cracks of my fragile mind.
I must not have been ready to die – the first
few times I tried –
matching needle tracks to portray lovers’ doom
whoever said: “Love conquers all” Fucking Lied!
I swore my undying loyalty to the syringe
heated tears in the spoon to match the misery
I feel,
lacerations from the sharper images of my past –
it’s terrifying when you discover that the suffering
is real.
I carved her name in my flesh –
and still she crossed me,
paid for that illusion – cut my heroin with tears –
Heaven knows how much it cost me.
Now I don’t need to tattoo fake tear on my
face
I’ve already given this despair a name,
I self-mutilate in ways you’ll never know
while I’m digging through the ashes of my shame.
But my tear ducts have become dehydrated
betrayed so much my heart is defeated
I am the living embodiment of an anathema
I pray for peace because I need it.
Exile…
By James Bonds
What do you know about sleeping
next to a toilet?
The stench you smell is your dying soul
exiled to a place determined to destroy it.
We have become the symbol of societal ills.
Once we realize that hope is a myth,
we shoot another shot, pop another pill.
This system, that gave the world permission
to distort common sense,
began our lives with velvet lies,
we’ve been in exile ever since.
It’s a corrupt manifest that poisons our
hearts and minds,
giving us what we need to self-destruct then
locking us away for these crimes.
These are stolen times.
When the cell doors lock at night, the
walls start talking
Our nightmares are beyond vivid and prayers
never escape this concrete coffin.
Prison is Exile,
and its torture device is the clock
Once condemned – you can’t change what’s
written in stone even if you crush the rock.
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