My life will only always ever continue to be a balancing act, which has less to do with dreams, and more to do with reality. I'm a freak in a circus of lobster clawed boys and bearded lady's, intertwined with split personals and corrupt trapeze. Juggling depression and anxiety along with drugs and alcohol. It helps at times. But soon those times that are only a day a week, turn into two days and then four and then a full seven. Then your hooked like an aerial on a happy day because of the high. High along the what seems as the rim of the universe. And each time you go around you either expand it or it sinks in on you. The walls cave in and the roof closed over. There's no air until you take another hit on the field playing baseball and you glide to 3rd base in a frantic sprint. Or pop an up or down or just another pill. Injections infect your cleansed state and you swear you see sounds. But then it's over and you're lying in a desert of average. Bloodshot eyes and frail nerves. You choose what comes next.
