not sure where all this is coming from...

if i weren't so hurt would i find myself enmeshed in the words catching me falling too fast for thoughts to catch up with
or would i strike ground and shatter
can't be broken when i was never put together from the first day
heart's asunder and there's no glue to mend the pieces
just these pieces mending me
i can't be fixed completely but i can get close enough to smile like i used to
busying hands with pen and pad and computer keyboard
like the more i write the closer i get to being whole again
in that same hole again
falling, tumbling head over feet, falling
not trying to catch hands in the walls to stop myself, i'll plummet faster
let me reach the bottom with fistfuls of poetry so when i strike floor and stop breathing
my voice in words will carry on when there's no breath left in me
but for right now, i'll keep breathing
keep writing
keep falling
keep myself above the ground walking in the clouds and grinning as widely as my psychotic mind will allow
and i'll just keep penning thought to paper like i'll lose em if i don't write them
is this for posterity or poetry?
am i writing these things to be remembered;
or just so i can look back and remember myself on my worst days
when again i fall below the watermark and get stuck in the space between thinking
and accomplishing
when video games and internet porn dominate so much more of my time than
tethering poems to pages with strings bled from the recesses of my heart still shattered
so i've got something to look back on when i find another sunshiny day to dream on
or when nights are filled with the raven-tressed mistresses of my inspiration
and downfall
when simply staring at empty space and smiling stupidly seems activity enough,
will i look back at this blog and be stricken unsilent
be beaten by words penned to keep me writing
because in writing, i find my life and love
as much of both as i can possibly contain inside my chest
plenty of room now since the heart's been crushed to dust
so i'll fill up that space with words, wine and smoke
three impermanents
three formless muses
residing in that empty space where these words once came from
i'll never speak from my heart again, it's too fickle and unsure
these words come from my fingertips which have brought all the joys and pains i've experienced close to me
from my tongue which tends to get me in trouble, but always in the best way
and from my feet, planted firmly right here where i stand speaking from
rooted in the community that spawned me
born again in verse and baptised in bartabs