Driven

Driven by unrealistic dreams
and
expectations,
I often fail
miserably, short
of accomplishment

The sun tried its best to creep in through the blinds, tightly shut to fend off the cruel winter. His first conscious and laborious breath that morning was not one of life. It did not invigorate.
"Another day," he thought. He had nothing to do-nowhere to go. Life held no more mysteries for him to explore today. The money he had from selling his beloved cabin was almost gone, but he could stretch it out at least another week or two.
"Mike," a voice called from outside his bedroom door, "I’m going to go visit my mom, I’ll be back late tomorrow night." Jared was a good man. Mike hardly knew him, had answered an ad for a roommate, but already he could see that Jared still had that fervor, that life.
As soon as he heard the front door close, Mike rose from his indented pillows. His room smelled of something all too familiar, it was the smell of despair. Littered around his bed, within arms reach, were the empty bottles that were slowly collecting, multiplying, beckoning. This one closest still had a few drops. And so his day began, with the bitter and bold taste of his truest friend, nemesis, Jim Beam.

devastate
a bomb detonated

Even the act of hobbling out of bed was a chore. It took all of his sparse strength to swing his uncertain feet onto the cool floor and into his worn moccasins. He contemplated a shower, thought better of it-too much precious energy exerted. Instead, he stumbled to the dresser--second drawer down was the last of his stash. Just one precious guzzle and he felt his trepidation wash away.
Mike’s now somewhat steady hands went to his flecked gray hair, smoothed it back, and then reached for the only attire he trusted anymore-blue sweatpants. As he pulled them over his weak and bruised legs he thought of the time he wore pinstripes and ties. Those days were a blur of trials, clients, money. "Life," he thought. He was respected then. He was at war with himself then, too, but he was alive.
The memories were too much to bear anymore. They haunted him, they pushed their way to the front of his crippled brain and only the numbing liquid forced them back into the recesses. Yes, today he did have a purpose, he was running short on his solace. Mike grabbed some of the cash on the dresser and went to the kitchen for a small snack to keep his body mobile.

destroying all hope
destroy the faith of those closest

Out of breath, he flopped down on the couch, just short of the kitchen. His eyes strayed to the book laying half read on the table. His eyes strained to read, now, even with his glasses. His thoughts swirled in his brain and came to rest on a distant memory. A memory of his estranged daughter. She sat with him then, talked about books, smiled, and offered encouraging words-gave him hope, and life. Seemed like yesterday that she packed her bags and left him with his books and empty promises of reform. Mike closed his eyes, shook his head, and a new ache appeared in his brain-the ache of withdrawal. Mike forced down a piece of toast, plain, and grabbed his keys. The clock by the door read 8:30 am.

there is set in my own ruin
murdering the remnants of goals
turning the dreams into nightmares

Mike brushed the snow off his blue blazer, got in, and shivered. It was a shiver not from cold, but from the idea of facing the even colder man at the counter of the liquor store. He didn’t understand, that man, he judged. Mike wanted to tell him that it wasn’t an addiction, he wanted to tell him that he was in control; he wanted the only person he came in contact with anymore to know that he was once a great lawyer. For a moment, Mike considered going to a new store, yes, that would show that cruel man behind the counter. But, the trip would take twice as long as normal. He decided to face the man.
"Good morning, Mike," the man said surly. "Cold enough for you?"
Mike gave an inaudible mumble and grabbed his usual two bottles, biggest ones they offered, and set them defiantly on the counter. The man rang up his total, took his money and bagged his goodies. Mike could see it in his eyes--the man was wondering how he could give up everything without a fight. He was wondering if there was any hope left for this wore out and desperate man.
"It’s not what you think." Mike accidentally shot out loud. The man cocked his head and looked confused for a moment. Mike grabbed the bag and stormed out the door. He was furious, who was he to try and know what I have been through? Inside the man bent his head in the reflective knowledge of just another life gone bad.

Screaming silently
within the cave of bone
crowded with disintegrating flesh
living a torturous existence
I...

Once home, the confrontation with the man seemed dreamlike and far off. The only concern now was whether or not to get a cup. Today, no, he barely stepped inside the door before the bottle was open and the warm fluid seeped into his stomach and every organ, every limb, every corner of his brain. The day was his. He sat down in front of the television, turned it on, turned it off. There was a CD in the player that he liked. His daughter bought it for him one Christmas. She had been so excited about the present that she made him open it two days early. The violins and flutes seemed to gather him up and float him above it all. He was flying through the air, limp and remorseful.

I languish
waiting...waiting
for a time of escape

Without warning, a sudden gag and shudder erupted through his entire body. He sat up with a start. But the storm then passed as quickly as it had appeared and he was at rest again. Mike sat for hours, listening, remembering, regretting. Where did he go so wrong? Why was everyone against him? What could he have done differently? Nothing, he decides. "I fought and fought, and they were too strong," he reassured himself. He waited for some understanding to come, but he waited in vain. There was nothing more to be understood, there was no capacity for a change of thought or activity. He was done. He was truly alone.

Cries go unheard
as the years add to the effluent
building and threatening
suffocation
starvation
and in fear
I tear at impenetrable walls


A drunken sleepiness came over him and he was relieved. He let his eyes close gently and he was suddenly serene. He dreamed of a time when he was truly happy. He was fly-fishing in the stream behind his cabin. His dog ran and barked on the bank, afraid of the cold, rushing water. Mike looked up at the trees stretching towards the blue sky, and then at the individual stones tumbling with the current. He smiled, he was alive. No one was around but nature--and she was everywhere. He could feel her with every breathe he took. Truly happy. No thoughts of his ruining, no thoughts of his destroyed family, no thoughts of what he left behind in order to pursue his one goal--numbness. He was alone, except for his devoted dog, and the water. He stayed there, unmoving, until the sun went to rest behind the large peaks in the distance. In the darkness, he awoke.

to no avail,
for no one hears or sees
the tragedy

Now awake, Mike remembered his happiness, distantly. His anger at the world faded momentarily to be replaced by guilt, immense and unbearable. A desperate sob which seemed to come from outside him filled the room. The tears rushed down his face. He could not let this happen. He could not give up, one more drink. Mike fumbled with the cap, rose his shaking and tear stained hands, and drank. He drank and drank and the sobs would not cease. His mind whirled; his memories tortured him, more liquid. It had beaten him, he decided, it no longer repressed the damning thoughts. He emptied the bottle, moved to the next.
"No more of this!" He shouted aloud. "Even I can take only so much!" His cries seemed to bounce off the blank walls only to come back and slap him in face.
Where was he not five minutes ago? The stream, the water. He wanted so desperately to return and let his sorrow wash out of his body and away with the current.
"Yes, the cabin," he thought, somewhat relieved. Mike laid his head on the hard couch cushion. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the pure, untouched, unharmed, stream. His breath became erratic, his mind swam and he started to fade. Another erupting gag and shudder, another laborious breath, again no life taken in.
One more breath...then no life left at all.

of a wasted mind
puking on itself.