feeding it

I have to laugh when comes down to something as trite and cliche as booze and pills but all of the would be, could be, should be critics can go get fucked. Sometimes you just need to throw yourself into the volcano, to stare into the figurative abyss in order to get grounded again, in order to find anything but nothing.
I'm full of nothing right now. I'm a soviet warehouse, a banker's soul and a politicians conscience. I need to dive in to see how far down it goes, to plumb the depths so to speak.
That's not exactly true, I'm just missing some of my more vagabondish traits. I'm dragging sea anchors with me the older I get, possessions, obligations, responsibilities and I keep looking for something sharp to cut them away with. Therein lies the problem. I miss my old life but my old life was fairly solitary, no responsibility means exactly that, off the grid, off the books, off the radar but it's hard to get someone else to do that with you and I have someone else who wouldn't survive that kind of life for long.
Maybe the cliche isn't far off, I am a "lost boy". It's not that I won't grow up, I can't, there's nothing for me. Just like most of the people that I relate to I'll probably end up a teacher or tradesman, ekeing out a living on the fringes of polite society, participating just enough to avoid suspicion and savoring the bitterness that I was never meant for this world.
Regret is a sour word and a bad place to live, fortunately I have little to regret.
Honesty kills me but not quite as fast as it kills everyone else.
That's the regret, I never learned to play nice, never learned to fake it, to hide the weird. I never learned social niceties beyond that you lie to people all day long just to get by the legit world. It gets me, the lies, the glad-handing and the submerging of the self in the greywater flow of the normals.
I'm part of the fringe world, proud of it too. The bar-folk, the bike nerds, art kids, musicians and weirdos. The lost tribe that you walk past every day, the ones who don't get it, who don't play well with others. The ones who drink the sun into the sky, who pick through your trash to find our treasure who live hard and fall harder. We take the bruises and scrapes home with us and make them into our monuments, quiet memorials that are lost while we live only to be found later and wondered over. Graffiti, demo tapes, paintings and journals. Sculptures and sketchbooks. Gravestones for the taunts, the shoves, the rapes and beatings that we have suffered to be who we are. Tributes to our loves and heartbreaks, the drinks, the drugs, the stolen kisses and borrowed sex that mark as well as our tattoos and scars. Welcome to the land of misfit toys, population us.