Mea Maxima Culpa in poetry

this is the
process
the process is this

rendering myself scatterbrained
to obfuscate the pain
filling my brain with everything
that I can fit in there
to dull the desire
to staunch the despair
better distractable and disreputable
than desolate
better artificially attention-deficit
than attempting something desperate
and at first I did it sub-consciously
then figured out I was good at it

this is the process
the process is
this

stuff yourself like a scarecrow
fill myself out like a strawman
with burbles and babbles
and factoids and jokes
and the bees will buzz so loud
that the wipeouts do not
overwhelm
the failures and the brush-offs
only bruise
they do not cut
when you bruise but do not bleed
its so much easier to deceive
yourself

I rarely drink
I couldn't afford drugs if I wanted to buy
but I found a coping mechanism
I got addicted on the first try
gorging on ephemera
yes, forgetting birthdays
bills details commitments
but also forgetting to hate myself
for all the bridges burned
for all of the now-inapplicable lessons learned
because you don't generally get two chances at
the longshots and Hail Marys
I fucked it up once already
and so I get lost in a haze
of jokes
and hit the curb with my tires instead
forget to update insurance information
student loans and resumes
instead of
jerking the car wheel over
in the night
and signing out
instead I overwhelm myself
with white noise
and it does somewhat blot out
the agony of all my long lost joys
somewhat
enough to keep going
enough to keep forgetting all the little things
enough to move on with what I got
in scattered shattered pursuit
of just one more longshot

this is why I am so foggy sometimes
this is why I sometimes drop the rhymes
this is how
the last two years
I have even survived
this is the process
this is my this

this is my life