Will I always wish I were dead?
When I am dead, what will I wish then? Will I still dream?
Will I remain unsatisfied, forever on the cusp of whatever,
that grand "else" I seek?
There are no answers. There is
nothing left to seek.
I shove a pen down my throat and vomit the trash,
rearrange it like alphabet soup and read it
like the entrails of the beast that I slaughtered
when I first opened my eyes. It reads,
"Get up. Grow up. Give up."