I wake in the wreckage of yesterdays, my body a ledger of broken promises. The mirror tells two truths— the ghost I was, and the woman still painting herself back in.Syringes of sunlight pierce the blinds, the light hurts, but I let it— a small mercy that burns cleaner than the flame I once chased.In the ache, I find rhythm. In the ruin, I find rhyme. Every brushstroke bleeds confession, every lyric claws toward air.They called me lost; I call myself becoming. The canvas doesn’t flinch when I tremble. It takes the shaking hand, turns it into something holy, scarred, and alive.Survival isn’t soft; it’s a howl made human. Art is the only pulse I can trust— beating fierce, a reminder that I am still here.

Truly sad i was thriving now I must go back to dying

​The air in here is poison, thick with lies and "m30" smoke, Every morning is a battle, every breath a jagged choke. I’m trapped between a mother’s nod and a brother’s hollow stare, While my man is out there tricking, selling souls for one more share. He comes home smelling like a stranger, pupils pinned to dust, In a house where love is buried under layers of ash and rust. It’s a cycle in a cage, a family curse in every vein, And if I stay another week, I’ll be the one they leave in rain. ​I don’t need a fancy palace or a diamond on my hand, I need a cage with wheels on it to get me out this land. I need an RV—a sanctuary, a fortress made of tin, To put a thousand miles between my future and this sin. A rolling miracle to be my kitchen and my bed, To drown out all the screaming voices living in my head. If I had that key, that blessing, I’d be gone before the dawn, Before the dealer hits the corner, before the next fix is drawn. ​I’m desperate for the highway, for the gas and for the gears, To wash away a lifetime’s worth of fentanyl and tears. How can I get clean in a room where everyone is high? How can I find the truth when every word they speak is lie? I need a clean slate on the pavement, a life that’s mobile-bound, Where I don’t have to look for ghosts on every inch of ground. An RV is my lifeline—it’s the only way I thrive, It’s the difference between a headstone and actually being alive. ​I’m screaming for a blessing, for a way to break the chain, To trade this toxic sickness for the desert and the rain. Give me the wheel, give me the road, give me a chance to fly, Because if I don't get out of here, I know I’m gonna die.

I'm here! I'm here! Stealing a few moments to write a feel. What am I feeling in the time that I am stealing? I'm feeling wise My new course arrives My fingers strive My soul feels alive. I'm here! Come here!

​ ​A pressed-up pill, a "m30" ghost, The devil’s math is what kills the most. A little blue bit, a speck in the tray, To make the whole world just flicker away. No "velvet thrill," just a clinical drop, A sudden silence when the heartbeats stop. ​"Got any blues?" is the street corner hymn, Where the eyes are all glazed and the chances are slim. It ain't like the brown or the old-school high, It’s a five-dollar bet that you’re ready to die. One minute you’re leaning, chasing the nod, The next, you’re meeting a localized god. ​The narcan is ready, the sirens are near, But the "fetty" is louder than any damn fear. It’s a ghost in the foil, a smoke in the chest, A permanent sleep for a soul with no rest. No "fall full of grace" or a shimmering light, Just a cold concrete floor in the middle of night. ​But the blues lose their bite, the tolerance climbs, You’re chasing a ghost a thousand more times. Then the pressies ain't enough to keep off the sick, You need something heavy, something lethal and quick. You graduate fast to that raw, white rock, Pure powder chaos, no key in the lock. No filler, no dye, just the weight in a bag, A white-powder shroud, a surrender-white flag. The block is a graveyard that’s still walking 'round, With spirits already six feet in the ground.