Crusty...

Yea, the crusty side of me is surfacing.  I am up to here with the bullshit.  It is not my fault.  I didn’t do it.  I’m tired, sick and fucking tired, of being the one to care, and keep my mouth shut about what I can see so clearly simply because if I opened my mouth I’d be dealing cruelty in so many directions.  I’m about to think it’s time to go walkabout.  It’s been a year, I gave myself that year to let shit stew and boil and cool and separate into layers.  It’s time to make the fucking cut, and let the goddamn pieces fall where they may. 

I’m tired of so many things, so many people in my world who wear their weaknesses as their totems of identity.  Fine, be a fucking head case loser, but do it on your own time, your own nickel, your own heart.  I’m tired of being the one to pick up the slack.  I’m not doing you any favors, I’m not.  I’m guilty as freakin home made sin, for years I’ve been the one who let you get away with it thinking I might be able to ease your passage into sanity.  And all I succeeded in doing was delaying the inevitable.  Just how fucking much do I owe the world for my sins, my shortcomings? These days I’m thinking not half of what I’ve already paid. 

The poem below is how I used to feel.  Used to, as in the past tense.  No more.  No more.  I’ll see ya’ll later.  How much later?  Good fucking question.