coloured plastic for straight lines

Im sure for some, life is slow,
peacefully strolling their treadmill of "normality",
happy in the sedative,
tranquil in the average.
For me I think I have been aware, or at least suspected
That I thought n felt "different" since I took my first breath.
Flipping through life like a porno mag,
cum stained, drug fucked, faking "happy endings"
There was no stillness for me ever, fuck all peace,
always destruction in my wake,
A soiled trail of broken things, broken people,
my bones broken too but I was too obliterated to feel the pain.
There came a point where the brokeness that was following me,
the flesh addicted zombies caught up with my speedy pace
I became the meal, devouring the mere existence that was left,
My mind, my body, my soul.
Half eaten, bleeding, crawling on oozing stumps,
my brain n my heart in either hand,
Begging for help, I found a away to escape.
I don't know how, or why
But after wanting to lose my life so many times
something stabbed my weakened frame and made me fight for my breath

Today I walk on half healed scars, telling my tragic war stories,
Cleaning festering wounds "to the best of my ability"
To the outsiders it may look like my treadmill is neighbours with yours
but to me walking in a straight line is often more sickening
than spinning around till i fall face first
To me 9 to 5 is fucked up and happiness is not a normality
Happiness, serenity are the occasional gifts
Received after a deadly fight,
I take my rainbow medals with blood stained knuckles,
broken fingers and dirt down my nails.
But all you see are "clean" hands