I can hardly imagine the beauty
I once saw looking down from Childhood Hill.
Just because I'm not looking down
doesn't mean it's not beautiful, even still.
It's just out of reach
from where I've taken my stance
and to make it back up is a downhill chance.
So many nights I wasted, wasted.
Not like the gamblers, though.
I wanted to, but they really chased it.
I just pretended to, but cared more than
I wanted to admit
about ending up in a bottomless pit.
They were just a bit too trashed
to know the depth of the cess pool
or who they splashed.
I was too afraid to flee the familiar feel
I'd always known atop Childhood Hill -
A mountain that doesn't have to be
climbed as long as we never fall from it's flat.
But then I came sliding down as if the ground
were made of ice or something like that.
Barreling down to my grave with my
hands in the air - announcing my arrival
And spitting at casualties along the way;
making light of their happenchance survival.
And they shook their heads.
And they threw their dirt.
Some of them wanted to see me hit Rock Bottom
just to know their hurt.
Some of them wanted me to stop, but changed
their minds when they saw my arrogance.
I'm not as bitter toward them.
And some of them, the ones I hurt the most,
watched in horror when I upped my dose.
Both my sanity and serenity in hand, I slid.
Both of which I lost.. I did.
Then I hit the ground and did I hit hard?
I hit so hard on the ground beneath,
I'm still spitting fragments of my busted teeth.
Painful memories of addiction and the likes