Death is the only little pleasure
Left in this sullen world
For all things have their own
attempt at death.

M
    y
Att-----ention
S        p         a          n
Is.      SdeOpleted
Th      writ         is
     at          ting
Foo                     lish

Everyday I muddle through
Meandering the waste land, a
Plethora of subsatisfactory
Tasteless apathy
Indifference to the bottomless
Nothingness that thrives
Existing to die
Sleep walking in ---
Silence

I can pack all my belongings into a single bag
But I cannot condensed my thoughts into a single universe

I ponder death often,
And he scoffs at my folly

Sleeplessness is the Gift I ask not for
But grants my imagination a vivacity
That thrives as a plethora of drugs,
And I see thee as a painful love
That I simply cannot return

I have a sentence to life
And the warden is Death.