I don't want to be the prodigal son
I don't want to be the un-loveable one
It's hard to know what I  have become

I sit on my back patio and let
Smoke roll like words off my lips
The only thing I'll have of you is
The sound of your voice and the sway of your hips

This is catharsis through slow burn
This is me coming coming to grips on my own terms
I'll just forgot what I've learned
Maybe nothing's eternal,  everything's just food food for the worms.

Broken down and beaten
until I can't feel a thing
Hoping for some comforting
But it's just because
I have grown so selfish
Why should I someday feel something?

When I've treated those
I've supposedly loved
with so much anger
with so much hatred
I'm so empty
I'm so alone
You took all the light
now I'm left hollow.

I'm slowly dying
becoming more depressed each day
How am I capable
of such self hatred
I'm stranded in my desert
being overtaken by sandstorms
If this is what life is
then I don't want it.

You're just a cigarette
And this temporary buzz isn't enough for this longing heart
I need a stronger substitute
Something with a full effect
Someone with an addiction so strong it's impossible to break

They opened your nose
Like the the gap between us
Your vitals danced across the screen
Just like ballerinas

I feel more connected to the leaves that blow across my driveway
Or the trees that stand silently on the highway on these late night drives
I've got to plant my feet and make forward progress
Cauese when I look behind there's nothing left.

I'm grown too tried of the bright lights gleam
And the silent hallways which are painfully  clean.
The white walls hold you in they match your skin, it's hard to see where  they begin, and when this ends

Let my eyes dry out from staring into yours.
I never want to blink because you'll be gone.
Dehydration is my best friend.
I'd rather die than be alone.

I'll find the reapor before I find love.
He'll stalk and wait for my final breath.
I see him out of the corner of my eye.
Laughing as I'm killing myself from the inside.

I am a magnet attaching myself.
To anything somewhat similar to me.
Because I'm so scared to be alone,
That I'd rather get hurt constantly.

My life consists of a personal war.
Constantly surrendering to depression.
Convincing myself I'm not enough for those around.
I'm not enough.

I want to die.
The reapor is my own hands.
The reapor is the rope that I have tied.
Let this be the last word I say, goodbye.

The happiness left like the smoke from her lungs and vanished in the air. The only thing she could feel was her insides burning, as if she has never burned before. But her heart had been on fire more times than she could count. Even with fire-alarms ringing she did not stop, and at night when her eyes were drowning, she would empty more bottles than she could count. She would drink until liquor started pouring from her eyes. She left a trail of ashes and empty bottles, leading to her newfound happiness, only to never be found.

*When it was too late she wanted to be a mathematician.

Death is not the final word.
Without ears, my father still listens,
still shrugs his shoulders
whenever I ask a question he doesn't want to answer.

I stand at the closet door, my hand on the ****,
my hip leaning against the frame and ask him
what does he think about the war in Iraq
and how does he feel about his oldest daughter
getting married to a man she met on the Internet.

Without eyes, my father still looks around.
He sees what I am trying to do, sees that I
have grown less passive with his passing,
understands my need for answers only he can provide.

I imagine him drawing a breath, sensing
his lungs once again filling with air, his thoughts ballooning.