It's one of those days
when I'd give anything
to be holding a glass of vodka in my left hand
and a cyanide laced cigarette in the right hand.
I'd pour my last thoughts out on paper
while slipping out of this world.
Depression hasn't set in,
and wont.
But it seems to be
the easy way out most days.
Purifying my body of life.
Clearing out all the bad
and leaving nothing at all.
What a life it would be.
Nothingness.
The last words between aquaintences.
Friends.
Part-time lovers.
The last one night fling.
The last good morning good bye kiss on the cheek.
Walking away from that life,
this life that I've built since I've been gone.
It's all new to me.
It's hard for me.
Opening up to something new.
Not only letting someone in,
but wanting them to be there.
I look around sometimes
and can't figure out where I am for the life of me.
I look around sometimes
and wish that I could just fade out of this world.
I would set,
and I would puff on my cyanide laces clove
and think of all the fun I've had,
and think of all the hurt I've seen,
and think of all the people I know,
and think of how soon death will close in,
and think of her,
and think of him,
and think of where I'll be, or wont be.
A tear would stream down my face,
and I would close my eyes.
My life has been noxiousness to my own existance.
Fanality comes quick.
Breathe.
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Submission Name: Breathe.
