I've wandered quite a while now, and I think it's time to sit.
I'm beaten, bruised and battered; reaching the end of my wit.
Start sifting through statistics there must be something I missed.
Or maybe I'm just chasing wraiths, that never did exist.
I no longer see the sunshine, ever shrouded in this mist
the forest plays a game with me, "Can we make him lose his grip?"
It's bad enough these ******* maps resemble twisted acid trips,
But I think my compass finally broke, the needle spins and spins.
The path is hardly visible, with incessant turns and twists.
Every time I think It's straightened, it invariably splits.
I'll slowly saunter onward I've too much pride to quit.
I may be lost forever, but that's just how life is.

It's strange to think that of my shotgun,
I'm growing rather fond,
but everyday I find that life is strengthening our bond.
I rise from bed and play my part,
in this appalling masquerade.
All the while this dreadful play has been cracking my facade.
I think I'll grab my shotgun,
prop the barrel under chin,
And with a gentle pull and click I'll end this story, fin.

I've been contemplating suicide,
as of late.
Not your standard,
bullet to the brain,
ending ones physical existence,
type of suicide.
No,
I'm considering something... more direful.
I'm going to commit a writers' suicide.
I'll start by deleting my various internet caches,
like the bat of an eye they'll all disappear.
Blink, blink, blink!
For extra measure,
I'll stick an Ice pick through this computer,
then sink it,
in the lake.
I'll follow that up,
by dissolving my pens in a vat of acid.
To the wood chipper!
Go the pencils.
I'll have a bonfire,
burn all the physical text I have,
and every single scrap of blank paper,
within reach.
To finish it off,
I'll break my thumbs,
pull out my own tongue.
Is a writer really alive,
without his word?

They say,
old habits die hard.
Don't I know it.
I put down the bottle for a while,
picked it back up.
Older now, more refined.
Bourbon,
instead of the cheap rot gut,
of my youth.
It all kills you in the end.
Still can't go out in public.
Teeth grinding,
Who's the enemy?
Who's the snake in this crowd?
Do I have my weapon?
Constantly clutching leather bound steel,
haven't needed the blade,
in a long time,
but must always be ready.
Marlb menthols,
pack a day, at least.
Smoke one to take the edge off,
there's always an edge.
Serial monogamist,
constantly striving for love,
hopeless romantic.
Hopelessly falling for women so venomous,
they could teach vipers,
a thing or two.
Picked up
a couple new ones but,
the old habits die hard

I'm drunk on Rebellion bourbon,
and I can't help but think,
what a ******* brand name man!
Coming from a cynical, sadistic,
sometimes near maniacal *******,
That's the kinda **** I wanna hear.
Start the rebellion!
******* A right I will.
I'll down this bottle and go off into the night,
my teeth sharpened
and a razor under my tongue.
A bottle full of gasoline,
a pocket full of matches.
I'll set fire to the village,
and watch as the fire dances.
Burn mother *******!
Then I'll hit the bar,
the next town over...
Continuing my little mission,
I haphazardly target victims,
Then incinerate 'em with powerful words,
If I fail to defile minds I'm setting teeth to curb.
Eventually the police will show,
too late.
I've already slipped out the backdoor
and skipped town.
Confident that I can start a riot before I pass out.
I figure eventually on me these crimes they'll try to pin it.
I'll sit back uncommonly calm and tell 'em the bourbon did it.

Every night I drink,
while trying not to think,
about all the opportunities I have blown.
Then I smoke a pipe,
contemplating life,
while I listen to the winter winds that drone.
By the time I hit the nicotine,
I'm feeling fairly libertine,
Certain notions get to flowing like the Rhone.
I'm sick of this existence,
the image gets persistent,
I think it's time I put a bullet in my dome.