i think about dying every day

not suicide
per se
just
alleviation

for if existence is suffering
then sadness is unending and
my anger defines me

it takes a certain sort
of courage to endure
to persist in spite of
the inevitable abyss

i am caught in a
cycle of cynicism
that leaves me jaded
more often than
i'd care to admit

and i can't help but
feel guilty nursing
my enmity

i hate him
almost as
much as
i hate me

yet i find
strange comfort
knowing one day
everyone and everything
will meet its end

we are precious
precisely because
we are finite