The Pusher

The Pusher


maybe the booze will work this time?

if not, will keep it moving, searching,

trapped doors for that substance, that meaning,

will you please swim directly into the part of me that is me?

another sip and I wait…

lingering while gripping onto a broken bulb,

the light left with the handful of pills I ate a few days ago,

no matter what anyone says or sells,

there is no comfort while crawling into the shadows,

no nap waiting for rest,

just smashed mirrors repeating the soundtrack of pain,

over and over again,

where’s that tingle the pusher promises now?

his promise holds a time limit,

his product chips away at the child in my eyes,

and yet…he is still my most anticipated phone call,

he is who you run too,

and while walking away from yourself you smile,

he greets you with holidays in his pockets,

how much money you have?

dictates the kind of vacation you’re about to settle into,

what will you do when your on it?

will you meet best friends that will last an entire 6 hours?

or maybe…

you will find inspiration into previously procrastinated choices,

with great ease you make a new list of goals,

ones that will surely bring success,

than seconds before that literal attempt begins,

the morning arrives and you crack, sink,

diving far from that literal attempt,

far from that confident rainbow you swallowed the night before,

so where do these orphaned little journals end up?

do they land in places where eyes can’t see them?

are they lost within the stuff that gets tossed when found?

so many words through so many years,

black and decayed from unanswered tears,

regardless…I lean back, straighten up, and flaccidly move on,

like a game of Arachnoid,

bouncing through space against the wants of a sober heaven,

wanting and wishing I wasn’t me, anything else,

just not here and not now,

"Oh Come On!" Have another that commercial tells us,

one sip, one pill pop, one line,

demolish that anxiety, starve the hurt, melt the meaning,

float as if you knew how,

forget about the doubt, shout at the colors, lasso the glow,

pull it down, erase it’s frown, then kick it straight in the teeth,

because you know when your spirit is coaxed,

by the electric timing of that subtle hail storm,

that all will be alright,

for at least one more afternoon


By: Bryan Matthew Boutwell /