now, this century of my long
Dracula existence, where lust for
an urge has become
my blood-
here I have eternity
in dread and lack of loves
for all but
darks and reds in
my mouth,
veins drained
eyes red teeth fanging on my own neck
living is not just existing
I find,
here resting in the sun in my coffin,
I think at times
of wishing for a wooden spike
to **** me dead:
or putting garlic in my drink.