Dump Truck

A couple of years after Jeff died his mom Denise found this poem, this is what she said about it.

This is exactly how the final version was found, the red title, the blue first word - Boredom, the spacing... his emphasis. There's another page he had on his bulletin board that said in big red and black letters CHANGE YOUR FUCKING LIFE ASSHOLE! and a piece of notebook paper with phrases and pictures and words all over it...all about how he had fucked up his life and what were his options?
He used to text me all the time when I was at work at the hospital... one time he said "Mom I have to tell you something. But you have to promise not to get mad." Next text was (of course) "I'm using again" I saved them all. One of the worst was "Mom, I'm so depressed. No hope.life.addiction"
 

 

Dump Truck

Boredom.  Is it inevitable?  No, only to conform to an unwanted routine, every day lifestyle that keeps leading me back to the subtle, yet blatant invisible death I know is slowly but surely creeping up on my weak

heels.

Is there a way out? I'd love to know.  Scattered thoughts know no higher being, just a mere shadow in the corner of my eye.   So far the second decade has brought nothing but rare sight of day, consistent puncture, and an awaiting collapse of a flowing source of life I call a mainline.  What the future holds?  A ticking clock we lay our eyes on, day after day to tell what we call time, which is all that will tell.

I see a badly needed lesson, an uncomfortable extremely humbling lesson, necessary for up and coming decades to unravel.  All and all possibly a test of maturity and acceptance of the realization that there are no questions or answers,  just common sense and reality, that unbearable, in your face, in your head your voice screaming right fucking at

you that you refuse and ignore so often.

So surreal an act of utter arrogance, resulting in a dark and gloomy state that shows little mercy.  So surreal an intelligent mind aware of some so-called state of reality that holds repercussions promising only the worst

of weather if you will.

Like denial almost, unwilling to easily take some control over decisions where vital consequences dwell and linger overhead, shown to be obviously detrimental to oneself, very grim source of self destruction, only an imbecile would do anything but attempt an immediate 180 turn, especially with the knowledge and awareness of this incredibly strong force I choose to call a motivated beast growing stronger day in day out.  In over his head he immaturely takes more huge steps towards the edge, not having concern for what lies ahead in a fairy tale life that has pointlessly been turned into a struggle that eventually starts to ripple like a slight breeze on a glassed off cove at dawn.

 

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