I promise you I don't want to **** myself
This isn't a letter saying goodbye
Not a poem blaming you for not seeing this coming
But sometimes
When I'm all alone
I sit in the bath just a little bit longer,
hoping and hoping I drift off to sleep
Or smoke three cigarettes
one after the other after the other
and hope my lungs get so filled with tar that I
stop breathing
Or stand dangerously close to the edge of a building
and close my eyes hoping the wind might *******
just hard enough to fall

It's easy to imagine
I know what everyone would say
How some people would cry
And some would secretly be glad
Some would feel guilt
Others sorrow
And in about a week it wouldn't matter

But I want to matter
Whether it be to just my mom
Or the man I helped cross the street
I want to matter

And so I tuck those thoughts deeper in the closet
And I step away from sharp objects and steep edges
And I sit and write poetry
Poetry will be the death of us all
Anyway

I learned today
That our cells regenerate
Every seven years.
It gives me peace
To know that in seven years
My body will no longer know you.
In seven years my skin
Will no longer tingle
At your touch.
In seven years my tongue
Will no longer remember
The taste that your lips allowed.
In seven years my eyes
Will no longer see you
On every street corner.
In seven years my ears
Will no longer hear
The music in your voice.
In seven years my nose
Will no longer smell
Your cologne in my bed.
But I learned another fact today:
Your braincells never go.
How tormenting it is
That you'll be gone from all my senses
But, in seven years, still haunt my mind.

I told myself I won’t fall again
For your stupid drugs of lies
But I was high on you already
I couldn't keep it in disguise

I tried to smile when I cried
Thought of you all day and night
I tried to think of happy days
The days when I was by your side

So I tried to get off the drugs
Just to keep myself sane
Because it was me who kept changing for you
While you remained the same

we are supposed
to find that one thing
that fits us
like the right key
in a rusty lock
to open the door
of such inspiration
even light

they are supposed to leave
then they will leave
and they will carelessly
toss that key in a big ocean

and we are supposed to
continue to live on
without each other
with a doorknob that squeaks
every time a curious someone
puts their hand on it
in attempt to turn
this door on our chest

only
they find nothing

Heaven waits and often does,
for those that seek its prize;
hell can wait as well my love,
this corpse has yet to die.
There's too much poetry to write,
too many hills to climb;
we've more music to enjoy,
before we're past our prime.
Too many friends to visit,
too many books to read,
the soul will let you know,
just what it is we need.
Fight against the dying light,
light a candle if you must;
we've too many things to do,
before we bite the dust.