Hope is always scarce.
In the middle of.
These doldrums.
Where the shore seems so far away
With nothing to take you there.

I've just accepted the lack.
Of forward momentum.
And wait.
To die.
Adrift at sea.

I remember people I see in stores.
Because.
They're the first humans I see.
After finally being forced.
Outside.
And, I hate it.
Too much intimacy.

There's supposed to be something.
Profound.
At the end.
Of this suffering.

But all there is.
Is the knowledge.
You.
Were.
Right.

It never really mattered.
Either way.
All there is is emptiness.
And that wretched.
Inner voice.
Just.
Repeating itself.

Giving up was the best.
Thing I could.
Have ever.
Done.
Now I'm.
Free to be nothing.

In my inability.
To stop chain smoking.
I'm alive.
By killing myself.
One breath.
At a.
Time.

I seem to exist.
In the tension between.
Each here and now.
In this moment.
Always.
Anxious.
Waiting.
For something.
To happen.