Unprepared; the world says I have to want to be.

Haven’t the angels seen my desperate screams?

God, put me to sleep,

Forget my promises you keep

If I could only cleanse or clip away the wrong in me

Chain and whip the numb and all excesses I perceive

But selfish me, lazy me, so lazy I’ve stopped eating

In a horrid, bloody daze where I fearfully envision

That my guilt ridden cuts could never be made deep enough

There are new wounds for each day my death

Runs over due.

This is a summary I guess, of the last two or three major entries here I’ve made. The running thoughts, and blank numb moments I am trying to make sense of right now.




Filed under Art, Death, Life, numbness, pain, personal, poems, poetry, Thoughts

2 responses to “Sick

  1. poetreearborist

    I dreamt the vision long and hard,
    A drain to see so far down the well

  2. lucienlachance

    I think this is probably one of your darkest yet.

    It worries me, what you’ve said, but I do understand somehow. I’m sorry it all keeps dragging on like this for you—believe me, I know. It just keeps going and going when all I want is for it to come to a halt and throw me off the train of the world so that I can just wither and die on the tracks.

    Just give it time, that’s the only thing I can really tell you. Keep drawing, keep working on things—drown yourself in distraction. It’s all that ever really seems to keep me going at the worst times….

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