honey will never rot
and maybe from that
we should conclude
that the sweeter you are
the harder it is for you to die

A week of pills awaits your mother
In their little plastic bins;
Remembering them is now her bother
A handful each, across the labeled row.

Saturday's her day to fill,
One each,
A steady line of soldiers:
Pills to calm her and to thrill,
Pills to orient her heart...
To end the day...and start it.
To speed the ticker up,
Or to ****** it.

Then of course, the irony...
(We can't forget this part!)
Pills to make the side-effects
Of other pills depart.

Therapies with warnings are included,
What to take with food or take without,
And whom to call should side-effects appear.
(No one ever reads a word;
The print is much too small)...
"Besides, this is the only cure."

A pharmaceutic's pleasure is
Dispensing colored regulators...
Encapsulated or enterically en-coated...

To **** the cancer?
An important goal...
But more, I think,
The goal should be
To save the patient....

eleven friends and family
gone so early in my life
death has taken it toll
on me I'm afraid
the one's who haven't died
said they would always be there
those were promises lost
I was stabbed in the back
sold out for something less
And now I have no one
nothing
but a bottle of pills
I still think about death
about starting over
in the afterlife
away from the pain
away from them
I'm so tired of this life
tired of the hurt
tired of being betrayed
tired of being alone
why should I care about others?
when nobody cares about me?
It is a constant thought
I will admit that
but am I desperate enough?
to end this life
I think perhaps I may enjoy it
the pain that is
the sadness
the torture
yes, I think I enjoy being miserable
I am a scorpio after all
scorpio's can blend in
disappear in a crowded room
their quiet and laid back
and yet they can take only so much
before they attack in self defense
when will I attack?
who will I hurt?
how badly will I hurt them?
perhaps I should end it now
before I do something I regret
perhaps I will enjoy regret
add it to the torture I already feel
continue being miserable

After last nights debauchery,
dying is an illusion
that I cannot attain.
I unfurled the sheets,
thriving on the threads
of an emaciated cocoon.
Nagging thoughts,
urges,
living on the
possibilities of
slip ups.
My reality
broken
through the alarm clock
of any particular morning.
I want to sleep forever
in mass amounts of memories.
My mind resented the idea
of propelling forward,
of the insatiable desire
of being wanted as much
as I project and feed
the want I have inside.
To be forgotten and let go
from heart and eyes,
to the keys from which
you use to type and
unlock doors of all sorts.
It's moments like this,
though
that I wish I would die