Of Crappy Poems and Unmade Beds

Of crappy poems and
Unmade beds,
A messed up hair,
And those dull eyes.
Mouth chewing fictional words
Of invented men and children,
And shoulders slanted with defeat.
The back slouched with apathy,
Or the lack of will to care.
The incessant thoughts day in, day out;
Self consuming,
Self deteriorating.

And yet you ask if I haven’t killed myself yet?

I have.
I did.
And the sad thing is,
I still do.
With every thought
Every word
Every waking moment
Every action, or lack thereof:
I kill myself.

And yet you ask why I still live?

Because I fail at killing it. At killing myself.
Because the light comes soon enough.
Because the light comes soon enough when I’m about to give up.
And then.
Then it escapes my grasps again.
It leaves and goes to where I cannot even fathom.
Away from me,
And always, always.
Always ending up
With crappy poems
And unmade beds.


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