This Is Poetry to Me

I have no one to talk to.
Yet I'm trying speak.

Since i drowned myself in stress,
The moment they added 'teen' to my description.

Stuck ever since and silent.

I've never had the freedom to openly carry my emotions.
Only open to feeling between one friend left that night and a few shots left of a bottle.
Whether they asked for it or not.
Whether i asked for it or not.
For the sole purpose of never bringing it up again.

I wasn't granted the luxary of wearing emotion per my environment.
And more than enough i still embolden to choose so anyway.
Weakened and childlike.

I wear my hood for comfort,
despite being Sun deficient.
The public doesn't need to see me,
Anymore than i see it.

The abilty to sit cold among killers,
Has evolved into my permanent grimace.
For more reasons than one.

Because i was never granted the gift to flaunt what I'm feeling.
Chains that now hold me back.
Can be boasted, a master of the art continued for my own survival.
From teen til today.

I miss the souls that used to parallel 30 cans a night.
Night after night.
Accumulated months of added time, blacked out.
Bonding and bonded, until throwing 30 back was nothing.
For a decade and a half before the cocaine.

We've filtered swimming pools worth through our selves.
Built-in, with zero exaggeration.
We've inhaled entire forests through our minds.
And split our own personal atoms.

But now 31, i can barely crack a beer.
Let alone a pack of grins.
The golden elixer of life.

Turns out were the smiles and laughs.
The entire time.
That is where life got on.

As now i chain smoke anxiety.
Trying all this to say,
With no one to talk to.