After last nights debauchery,
dying is an illusion
that I cannot attain.
I unfurled the sheets,
thriving on the threads
of an emaciated cocoon.
Nagging thoughts,
urges,
living on the
possibilities of
slip ups.
My reality
broken
through the alarm clock
of any particular morning.
I want to sleep forever
in mass amounts of memories.
My mind resented the idea
of propelling forward,
of the insatiable desire
of being wanted as much
as I project and feed
the want I have inside.
To be forgotten and let go
from heart and eyes,
to the keys from which
you use to type and
unlock doors of all sorts.
It's moments like this,
though
that I wish I would die