I'm not going to heaven
That's the ****** gift I've been given,
The muzzle of a rifle is as close I will ever be to heaven. Most of the nights I stay awake waiting on leaving.
Why must I stay every time I try to end this bleeding

I want to bash my head against a flat surface until the paint on the walls and matter of my brains are so indivisibly the same. Where I'm spread out so fine everyone can see me unrenounced, unconfined. Clearly, indecent, True. Liquids, and solids combined. Broken from the encasing of my skull. The Impulses electrically, chemicaly controlled. Pleading for an exit, with a plan so bold. I release, held back by a knot. It's the end of the road. Or the beginning of a new plot? Spent these last few weeks, planning for the end. Eating I was not. No reason for food, a back up plan, a rock. All of my possessions to sell. Drinking more, in order to know for sure. Thirty milliliters at a time. I got closer to the day, without a filter in mind Every night till the end of the week. My life had become meek. I would shake, I was madness. Entirely sadness. It only made sence and the feelings still intense. The answer was obvious. I no longer had to worry about us. You were you and I was me, waiting around tired, unhappily.