3 years sober & update

Okay…so I know it’s been forever since I’ve posted a blog. I know, shame on me right? Oi. Friends, life doesn’t stop. Everything keeps moving and lately I’m feeling so low. I’m feeling so small and shit going on lately, a relationship ending, bullshit with cops…I just it’s been a journey these past few months.

I left because they valued this shit more than me and their own life

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On the 11th of May, like every Mother’s Day, I was sober again. This time friends, it’s been three years. Does it feel different? Yeah, I guess. I still miss my vices at times, but I know that it’s nonsense and is a way to die and not live. I just choose not to be that person anymore. It gets lonely, like now, I feel so alone and lonely. I have friends and what not, but sometimes I think about the substances and how they were comforting, but I know I’m just telling myself lies. It’s like when you get out of a toxic relationship (which I’ve recently just done) you make up excuses for the relationship and you glamorize it and you highlight all the good parts. The bottom line: —————->>> Clean & sober is the only way to be.

Enough of the sad shit, right?

I just bought a new motorcycle–a 2007 Honda Shadow VT1100. She’s so pretty and is sooo much fun to ride. By the grace of God I was able to pull it off and my payments are pretty low, which is great for a starving artist like myself. (I just picked up a second job as a waiter, aside from getting tips, the best part is–they feed you!)

I went shopping!

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Meet the twins!

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Road trip to see mom!

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Made it!

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Does my balaclava make me look creepy or like a ninja or both?

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I had this for lunch today!

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Oh, & i’ve got a new fucking book out if anyone’s interested!

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White Wedding Lies, and Discontent: An American Love Story on Amazon.

Phil Volatile

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Pawn Shop Towns

Pawn Shop Towns

Children are overdosing
on heroin and they’re
not much older than 14
The parents hit the street
panhandling for money
to bury their deceased

And after one look at them,
you realize that poor child
never even had a chance, and
you start to wonder if it’s
all just a big hoax

You never saw a pawn shop
town with so many tattoo parlors,
liquor stores, churches, bars,
and police stations—on the
same damn street

But there’s a million of these
towns that are like factories,
breeding hate and fear that only
the fortunate will never meet

And these zoomed up
kids die like saints, for
someone else’s
dollar

© 2012 Volatalistic Phil  White Wedding Lies, and Discontent: An American Love Story

The Drug of You

The Drug of You

If poetry had a taste,
it’d taste like you;
sweet and sour,
but still sticky like glue
And if you were a pill for popping,
you’d be blue;
because you bring me up,
and let me down used, not abused
I’d get a prescription for
60 MG of I don’t hate you,
and stay limp,
staring like a statue
But you can’t be any of those;
yours is from a needle not meant for tattoos,
and mine is sold in bars
from 11 am ‘til 2
And on street corners,
bought with I.O.U.’s;
writing poems;
being dealt a deuce;
you, me, and drug abuse

 

© 2012 Volatalistic Phil, White Wedding Lies, and Discontent: An American Love Story

Burnt Spoons

Burnt Spoons

She left a burnt spoon
with a milk stain stink,
on the kitchen’s counter
next to the sink

My face fell and hit
the poorly tiled floor,
when she locked herself
behind a brown bedroom door

Now, getting dolled up to
go looking for a score,
but hits me up for cash
because she said she’s poor

When did loving her
become a chore?
When did my love,
become a revolving door?

 

© Volatalistic Phil 2012, White Wedding Lies, and Discontent: An American Love Story