I’ve been wanting to die –
But it’s been taking so much time,
So, I rang up suicide…

Greetings, O Death, why do you not approach? You are aware of my
depression, and we both recognize I’m such a mess; speaking from
my chest, while my heart is shielded by a metaphorical bulletproof
vest. I am shattered in this tomb-like gloom; those funeral regrets of
not having the power to decide if I’ll be dressed at my level of best.
The residue of sorrow clings to my breath, like coal dust – as every
train of thought rides the tracks of my morbid dreams of death.

But do you know the sound of pain – those around me seem so deaf,
even as I look like a piece of parched land; my eyes are a dry red -
I have no real tears left.

I’ve been wanting to die –
But it’s been taking so much time,
So, I rang up suicide…

Hey there, can you hear me now? These words may seem utterly
absurd, yet I strive to have my voice heard, like a solitary soul lost
among the herd. But maybe a gun to the head can make me seem so
heard – you know I’m just so hurt. Your silence lingers, and in this
suffocating darkness, that once-bright flame of passion feels so burnt.
I find myself devoid of tears, breath, or any glimmer of hope, and
though I rarely swear, I feel as if I am under a curse.

Lately, my inner demons have become my closest equals; my friends
feel more like other people– and this is the hardest part of my life,
that death seems so simple.

I’ve been wanting to die –
But it’s been taking so much time,
So, I rang up suicide…

In the spaces between my breaths, there’s heavy pauses; as I give out
a lot of fake poses. Here I stand, at the intersection of my loneliness,
waiting for you, in hand – a bunch of roses. I’ve had to force myself to
accept these ungodly forces – trying to worship, even as I view my
existence as a sea full of war ships.

But maybe you shouldn’t call my line – when I’m hanging with
family, that have me feeling like hanging myself; it was a folly,
pretending to them that I was always fine.

Until we cross paths again someday. Bye!

Does a thick woman ever feel her patience wearing thin, while
her man wears a beard, ready to take her every mood by the chin?
He’s dating a girl named Erin, who hates it when he cuts his hair,
and runs errands. She made him ink a tattoo on his neck, declaring,
“property of Erin’s,” then she decided to shave her head, but she's
now wearing a wig— a real bold choice. While her man is plagued
by countless voices, but he himself, doesn’t have much of a voice.

She swiftly cleans up her act for the public eye – she's a minute maid,
with a juicy figure that could turn any man to pulp; and she’s also
self-made. And he’s like an empire of ants, bearing more than his
own weight. But he’s not much of a saint, his mischief thrives when
she’s far away, and it can never wait. He keeps a side piece as a
thought to chew on, always clearing off his plate.

They picture a relationship, but lack the means to truly relate –
just a ship; claiming they’re on the same boat; being each other’s
bait. “Plenty of fish in the sea,” but they leave hooks in one another,
after they hook up. Never pausing to Google for their worth; it’s right
there, just look up– to the writing on the wall. "We’re all crumbling
on each other"; if these walls could speak. As countless feet trample
on each other’s toes, in these crowded streets of Love, we seek.

Paved in toxicity – a toxic city, where toxic lovers inhale toxic fumes.
Easily fuming when being called out; the headlines of these daily
romances, all spell bad news.

Please,

don’t start to believe having a large circle of friends
is the closest thing to having a halo – not everyone
in your life is a holy person. But they love to dig up
something worthwhile out of you; leaving you only
as a holey person.

“I don’t really exist, and I know I don’t exist,”

so it says – being latent, until it’s been found.
Where I sometimes break down by the corner
of Writer's block; where the drive I had for
something, finds an abrupt stop.

In truth,

this Writer's block doesn't exist; it's just
a point of time, the writer needs to BREATHE.

You don’t know how to party;

this is the part where you admit that you only love me partly –
and this is why we’re feeling each other with no emotion. And for
the interest of love: you’re a bank that’s hardly open. Some days
you’re such are keeper, other times I’m your secret keeper – so dark,
so deep, the secrets that you keep; telling me how to taste all the
lies on your lips.

Burning me inside; dreaming of your fiery lips – there’s that filth
in driving my thoughts into you; taking ourselves to a gearing fifth.
You and I are both ******* up sometimes, like this world – where
man screws mother nature; treating her like a ****.

And that's why we’re not the love for each other; when the love
we have for one another, comes from a place of where we’re both
still trying to understand who we are to each other.

We forgot the part, where we're supposed to be lovers!

Right here, in between Heaven and Hell

right here, is the world – and some dream of owning the world, but
it already owns parts of your mind. And when someone asked me
when I wanted to die, I saw the hurt right in their eyes when I said,
"right now, would be fine."  Though it's been a while, since I’ve
thought about suicide – but even with all the maturity, some days
that glass of wine, doesn't feel so fine. The glass looks half empty;
probably because we first have to whine. Could life be like a girl, with
a big chest; do you still know how to say it with your chest? Calling
a ***** a *****; maybe I just need a love to find– digging it out my
heart for someone, just to call them mine.

But love isn't gold as much; it’s silver nowadays – where you come
second after the bad boy who first broke their heart. And that’s still if
it’s to your own best of luck; if they hadn’t gone through a bunch–
wanting your love now, only when you’re out of love. Or is it meant
to be out of luck – four letters to that word, “Love?” Where the match
you find, is like a fresh match striking the box – it has to go through a
few sparks! Maybe the complimenting four letter word is, “Loss;”
gaining the worth of something now, after the few times you had it
for a loss.

But I don’t know what I want, I’m just dealing with a lot!