The Bottom

A Poem Written 07/14/2006

Image by günter | altered by David C. Roberson

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The Bottom
07/14/2006
David C. Roberson

Hitting the bottom
is not what it sounds to be:

the end of the bottle,
the prick of the needle,
the shine of the spoon's
bubbling serenity.

You're told once you've hit,
there's nowhere else to go.
And once you believe it,
on that ground you'll roll.

And your toll to that world
is a piece of your soul
for The Wizard who sold
you peace. Fill the hole,

but believe all his warnings:

Utopia wasn't built without
blood filling the gutters,
staining the grout,
spilling from veins,
invoking tormented shouts

from the whiners and weepers,
and widows and creepers,
who rattle and rage with
bright, bulging peepers;
who cry coarsely with
no holdings in store.

I don't want to fall no more.
Bring me to soar on your score,

where the grass is still greener,
where the sky's blue is keener,
where the quakes don't come
till you're empty and leaner.

Take me to your plain
where there is no pain.
Do not disturb me,
or the voices in my brain.

Hitting rock bottom
means the world
gets to stone ya:
sharp, jagged things
and sustained blunt-force trauma.

They deny you your hope,
say you'll do it again.
They shrug, roll their eyes,
write you off with a grin.

But hitting the bottom
can mean the last of supply.
That it's time to start climbing
back up toward the light.

Through grit teeth and strain,
and the mean mitt of Death,
clawing and squeezing
at every short breath.

Then you'll struggle forever,
even once you're top-side,
from memories relived
and the memories you hide.

They won't let you forget.
Nor will they let you rest:

We know what we saw
in that shapeshifting hall,
educational to correctional,
with our futures forestalled,

while the dead poets sang
their words: "Don't you fall."

But we fell and we failed,
suspended, expelled,
the knowledge thirst quelled,
exalted by peers,
judged, and then jailed.

So take us down now:
to the bottom.

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