Genre: depression, addiction, sad, suicidal, dark, drugs, confused, empty, bitter

Misery’s Dispensary
by Nick Meridionale

emotions have always meant the most to me
I mean, really
do you think there’s anything in life
not worth feeling?
words slither through our skin
and enter our bodies
like my brain emits T.H.C. ;

T.
H.
C.

this
head
can’t
take
hell’s
campaign;
the
hanging
chord,
the
hop
from the chair
this. head. can’t. take! hell’s campaign!
the hanging chord, the hop from the chair…
the hanging corpse!

common symptoms include:
blotched eyes and dry sweat
depending on what high you’re aiming for;
joy or sadness
I cough and I choke,
trying to fill my lungs
up the most,
but my throat becomes a waterfall
layered out in smoke
and I ponder if my mother will witness
my ghost
after she lowers my body into an eternal and
earthy comatose.

I think the most miserable types of people
are one’s whose bodies have become
empty and dried up rivers
where even dead fish can’t deliver
satisfaction to the bellies of vultures
our hearts can’t get
accepted by society’s norms or cultures
we are different types of people
who feel much deeper than others
we hear words heavily,
and we listen with keen ears

so I had my first high
and suddenly
my empathy was at an all time high,
I was able to see my
own desires and dreams
physically by my side
and I could smell the future’s meadow
but after a few hours
I returned to my past’s shadow

now that I’ve had my last hit
it’s hard for me to feel it;
the emotion.
the passion.
I’ve fallen in love with the fashion
that withdrawal dresses me in
instead of clothes I wear my skeletons!

“save that hit for
a rainy day.
and if your head
feels like a hurricane
then take as many as you may.
if your vice keeps you dreaming
at least it mutes the sounds
of your demons screaming.”

lately I’ve been stuck in my creative ocean
I used to row a boat and feel the motion
of the waves;
typing words down on a cracked phone screen
just to feel solace
under the hot summer sun
but I’ve lost a paddle,
I’ve broken a few wings

so when these sharks circle me
and they start to sing
I fear that I may die.
I feel death in my tiny stone soul
consuming my heart
and continuing to grow;
so when the sun screams at me
and my skin starts to crow
I long for the colder climates
of the coffins down below

I love feelings
I love feeling sad, even miserable
I love feeling happy and joyous
jubilance is a fruitfulness that I rarely emit
and morbidity has scrutiny when it fishes
for the bigger catches inside of me
once the sun dries me up, and
depression devours all that I have to give,
my river will become the trench
that murderers bury the victims
they deemed unworthy to live

my soil can’t decay, it actually
grows wealthy at the taste of lifeless skin
I kiss the corpses of young women and children
to feel a sustenance
that beautiful women
and children’s eyes
once poured into my soul,
I once held an abundance of substance
now I’m a bag of blood,
abusing myself by using substances.
I’m a bag of bones
amusing others, swearing I know what substance is…

but as the days go on,
and the sun’s volumes become more and more immense
I will decay and feast on whatever
the devil can dispense
this sobriety is painfully subsiding,
it’s fastening the blade to my wrists
how many cadavers does a dying man have to kiss,
to confirm he has a pulse,
and swear he’s not one of them?

(n.j.m.)

* * * *

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