In another life.
My self wouldn't be a prisoner of his own regret.
He would've lived his life filled with dreams.
Wouldn't be shackled by the heavy weight of the world.
He'd be in France, exploring the lovely scenery of the things I could never fathom to see.
Maybe he'd be chasing his dreams of becoming a musician.
Touring all over the world with his head held high.
Singing the songs I'd made when I was still young and naïve.
Hearing about the world through the eyes of another.

Maybe in another life, I wouldn't have suffered like this.
I wouldn't be burdened by my own regrets, my wrong doings etched in my whole being.
Now, I only carry the sadness, the anger, the loss, all the hurt that my other selves have felt.
I will carry the burden of all the Me's that's ever existed, in every other universe.

Maybe in another life, I wouldn't be who I am.
I can only pray for them and their happiness.

the branches of life
the leaves of desperation
the relentlessly dead buzzards
and the meaning of it all
clenching the teeth of each root
heart wrenching lives, long gone
clinging on what little they can
with all these fluttering feelings of insanity
one day, you'll become someone you've most hated

Oh to write about death.
The sweet surrender of the lost self.
Like a shadow cast against the light, I am but a nothing in this world of everything.
Should I come to terms with my self-hatred, I would do everything in my power to end my life.
The solemn activist of my own will.
I do not deserve to live.
This is a letter for me, should I still be alive after the 25th of April 2022.
Hold on to your anger.
Hold on to your self-loathing.
**** yourself, again and again, if given the chance.