This week was the first in a long time that I seriously thought about finding away out of this life. Not because I was sad and hopeless, and not because something bad is going on in the house. I thought about it because I am tired of feeling as if I am nothing, doing nothing, dreaming nothing, wanting and feeling nothing. The word ‘burden’ comes to mind a lot more often. But call me selfish, I’m writing more all in the sights of having a decently large collection of poems to my name before I die. It’s something right? Even if they all suck and are nothing but the same thing said a few different ways.
What’s it going to take to shock the life back into me? Have I become so useless that all I do is push myself aside always, and no longer even really want a chance? I seriously don’t get life; It’s just me sitting here, void of everything, waiting to die. It’s not right. Maybe I should be ashamed of myself and run with that for a while. And see what it moves me to do.
Here’s a short glimps of the fragmented thoughts in my head at the moment.
To smear the tear
And cling to fear
Live years and years
And simply sigh
I crack my neck
Write and forget
Become upset
And want to die
A statistic
To sign a list…
Blow life a kiss…
And no goodbyes
A short sort of structure here, but honestly, it’s all I’ve got right now.