Poem, essay, or stupor?

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Who are my Friends?

So I have been thinking as I sit here listening to songs and drinkin’ as I occasionally do. How do you know who the real friends are…?

Shouldn’t they know something of you?

Should they know not all of the deep dark secrets of which you only reveal to the most sacrosanct?

Things that you have done, things you want to do to others, which you never speak of for fear of the retribution that those tasks may actually bring about.

It happens every holiday such as Christmas or birthdays, you discover who the truths are, for they are the only ones gifts who you don’t return to the shop where they bought them.

Thank God for Windows Media Player eh? Whisper Morphine. How many people will figure that out?
Would the important known what that means most likely not for they know nothing of me and who I truly am.

I wear tattoos for my own purposes but yet one person has yet to question what they mean to me. Except for the occasional person who is privileged enough to have seen them all. They tell a story of life one that you wouldn’t wish for but one that is mine all the same.

A minefield of emotions and affections left by a sniper who hides in the dark awaiting their own discovery so that they may burst forth upon the world at large. Corporate whore who knows what it takes to advance but chooses instead a path that will lead…nowhere except to their own demise.

For no other reason than they fear to succeed at not only one thing but everything that they do. Ah, the fuel runs dry so I am unfortunately left to dry hump a keyboard with no other fascination than that which can be enveloped by a single fist thrusting itself into the imagination that it has penetrated a skull and actually made you think.

Who are my friends…