We make dead bodies out of our beds.
Sleep with them like our best friends.
Back to back,
Spine to spine.
Our relationships put pillows over,
The unresponsive corpses.
Suffocating the coal of closeness,
And we trample through our mattress.
Each thread is tied to the same letter in a vein connecting hearts.

Through ink and blood.

The noose holds our grieving neck
The pillow suffocates our  cowardice
A syringe stops guilt we can't make up
And a final bow and jump ends our regret


For not being what we once knew we should be.
I melt with you in the end.

Suicide pact friend ship.
Notes to the dead.

Sit down, throw up, pass out,
In your own *****,
Dying,
And no body cares.

Pat your, self on,
The back,
Hold back your head,
Crying,
Spit in your hair.

The drunkards death for me,
Slow and easy,
Destructed and lonely,
One apartment. Dead.

Fly friends circling waiting to eat me.
Smelling of failure in every *****.
Bot corpse now housed ****** and drowned in the thrones organs.
Bloated and filled with tears from family.

My life's,
A toilet,
Bowels are,
Disposed in,
Crippled,
Defeated in pain.

Wash up,
Clean out,
Help him,
See that,
Faceless,
Empty death bed.

The party is over.
The funeral was without visitors.
Like a guy that kills himself,
To spite his ex girlfriend.

I guess an old bicycle is like an old wife
they both get tired and worn
and they both lose their luster

                   Wait!
I could never toss out of my old bike
I guess they are not similar at all!