Because my optimist is a screaming bastard

I now feel the pain in my chest.
Given it might just be all the cigarettes
I smoked to fill the gap,
you are leaving me with behind in this world.
My lungs turning black
and I am the one forcing
the tar down my throat,
like I lose on nothing out
but on some fresh air.
Sometimes I drink when I blow smoke into the room.
I don’t get how people can drink to forget.
When I drink I feel distant from this world, a necessary one,
but deep down
I am always connected to the flying space rock
in the middle of nowhere.
People started to call me an alcoholic,
because these days I prefer to drink alone.
The reason, I tell them.
Best company comes naked;
is hard to find,
harder to get to stay
and I never found a more loyal comrade than myself.
Most of the time,
he might not be fun to be with,
but he is not as easily distracted,
his fingers tend to drill in my open wounds
and because I know,
oh I know him for so long –
this cheap, lazy savage,
who talks about sacrifices of blood,
sweat and time I have to make
to please and get the attention
of the new gods of this old world.
Oh this distant me – so wise and drunk of simple assumptions,
he pulls out of a hat like a showman,
who pulls a bunny out of a secret compartment
of his cylinder
and calls it magic –
there is nothing new ins his tricks,
he only whispers to me about stuff,
I already know is coming.
Why does he not come closer,
if it is that easy?
Because the distance is his secret sauce.
The reason why I visit him in busy weeks.
We don`t talk,
talking is too civil of a reaction
for these things, he tells me.
I can’t reason with him,
so I scream until we lose my voice
and god what a whiny optimistic,
self-absorbed,
world saving,
Christmas loving,
romantic talker this cunt can be.
He only loses, because he loves to not give up.
“Be me for a day”, I say to him
and he tells me I could be way more of man,
and I threaten him I could be less of a soul
and he goes back to topics,
that make my lungs hurt and scramble my thoughts.
He doesn’t care about winning,
he cares about winning against me
and this is the way he always wins.
He doesn’t care about getting hurt
– no, he calls me a coward
and a coward I am.
Together we smoke two packs a day
and his advice drowns in daylight
as a product of nightly emotions,
I don’t deal with it during the light.
We went through hell together,
oh, you pathetic spirit,
but we were not made for each other
as you were not made for anything else.
I would drown you myself if I could,
but I might still need you.
I need you my optimist.
Because she is gonna read my stuff,
when she gets old enough,
and she will defend my words as if she was born to them,
until she cracks under the pressure
and hates me for my hate.
Whisper to me,
tell me I can be a better man than I ever was.
Let her be a butterfly and a car mechanic and a heartbreaker and a dancer.
And on a piece of a paper, I write a poem
and I take the paper,
I read it
and rip it in half
and make a ball out of it.
A paper ball
and I throw it in the corner of my room.
I am tired.
I feel tired.
Tired waiting for something that is not gonna happen.
I thought of giving up before.
Take a simple path
and be a simple man.
A simple man in a simple life,
earn an income,
be a lover, a loyal one,
and then just let it happen.
Don’t be afraid,
because you are just afraid.
And go to work in the morning
and come home in the afternoon.
Eat dinner with your family.
Show this daughter, you want to have,
how you would solve this math problem
and draw pictures with her of her favorite shark.
In the morning you wake up anyway
and while she is gone,
just go to work.
What is there for you otherwise?
You,
the super person,
the best writer in the whole fuckin’ country.
Bored from everything under the sun
and never happy.
You can’t even look people in the eyes.