Body Canvas

Wish I could get tattoos. Unfortunately I am not made of money like most basic fucking people these days. I’m actually broke as fuck and got nothing better to do than be high and wait for a good reason to die. Not like I don’t already have an entire book full of reasons to end it all. But sometimes when you know it’s time to act on a feeling, you better do it. I’ve already tried twice. I can’t even kill myself the right way, how does society think I’m going to make them an extra buck by joining the work force? I have had many jobs, all complete and utter failures because of the nonsensical expectations they had of me. I’m not good at anything man, just saying. And I think that’s a valid reason not to burden anyone with my lack of marketable skills and qualities. I’m not good looking, nor am I good for anything other than playing a tune on my piano. “Wow! Listen to that tune! Could definitely go somewhere in life with a talent like that.” Think again asshole, all my efforts have proven to me not that I am some prodigy that could take their way to the top. Instead I have really shown myself just how much I really suck at life. To the family that thinks I can go far, please stop lying to yourselves. You end up disappointing yourself, and I thought that was MY job. You could say that at the end of the day, so much of my life would make for a brilliant book, or an amazing piece of music, or even a good amount of artwork in the form of tattoos. Hence the reason I really want them. But no…Nope I already got that covered. So many little lines, as if to trace back to memories long thought to be buried deep beneath my skin. Instead they reside on the outside, that way I can read all about my miserable waste of time on earth. When I let the red river flow, listen to the sound of some modern day pop artist with nothing better to do than complain about being oppressed or not making enough money, I find a sense of peace within my life. Even if it is brief, at least I know that I can do something besides drugs to make myself a little more numb. My arms spin a disturbing tale of adolescent alienation and countless hours spent carving away to give the pain an outlet. My legs sing the same song, only the artwork is easier to hide, so it’s not as well done. Looks more like slashing than being anything remotely “well-done”. Oh well, it’s just such a great coping skill that I don’t think I’ll be giving it up anytime soon. Going on 22 and still haven’t found another form of self-help that does it any better. Too bad I quit smoking.