i can't feel until i move
the heat is overwhelming me
i slide
i slide 
down

arbitrary sounds
a jingle
a ring
what are they?
i know them but do not

i want to sleep
yet i do not
if i follow my desire
i will surely die

my skull clogged with needless clouds
why are they here?
why won't they leave?
when i move, i feel alive
why won't i move?

i can't feel my face
i move, but as a marionette
controlled by some unknown force
not me, surely
i can't feel a thing

lying here, indiscriminately
i feel dead, but am alive
an unusual reticence
after six doses of poison

i feel like a cotton ball
fluffy and loose
like a cloud
it is late
yet, right now, time does not exist
is this adulthood?

i am still myself.
no, not really.
i do all that is required of me
the laundry, extinguishing the lights
but only in a trancelike haze.
i am doing my day to day chores, but not really.

i willingly recieve my seventhdose of pure, hard poison.
i feel like dying.
oh, water! elixir of life
do you realise how you are my salvation?

i realise i used apostrophe in this past verse
and am using metatextual references right now
seven shots of hard liquor
my first time doing so, age sixteen
am i inhuman?

and now i realise who those i mock are.
the open mouth, the blandness
the lethargic demeanour.
seven doses of poison
is all it took.

my veins feel empty.
my nerves are inactive,
evidently.
is this the effect?
is blocking the nervous system all alcohol does?
how weak.

yet, so strong
now i feel nothing at all--
except for the slight revulsion
that comes with it all.
the feeling that, were i to attempt at one more drop,
every inch of me would report itself
to the inner reaches of my local cistern.
my hands feel numb
as though i sat on them for days.
simile! simile! why do i recognise simile?

how are my eyes still open?
they must have shut by now.
i should turn off the lights. i will.
i can barely stand up.
and what of the eighth? do i dare to find out?
after all, my only goal
is to do such journalistic research.
journalistic, yet naive.
hunter s. thompson
how do i still know you?

and why am i writing?

this was meant to be a song.
yet, now, i can't hear anything.
does music exist?
do words exist?
i don't know. 
i can't feel a thing.