I turned 36 today but I feel like I’m 86 and all I want for my birthday is to die.
pain is everywhere/ hell is everywhere and happiness doesn’t exist.
no amount of love or change in my life can cure me from the aching loneliness that lies within
no amount of records could complete my collection
no amount of words could finish my poems
I don’t want to **** myself I’m not a suicide case you won’t find me at the bridge tonight and this isn’t a suicide note or a cry for help or attention seeking
I’m just really ready to go, ready for decomposition ready to escape from myself ready to be put out of my misery and to be released from total anguish that life has shown me
there’s nothing more this blue grey world could offer me when the sun shines I want the rain to fall my feelings are numb my brain is dumb my emotions have solidified depression makes you feel like a useless blob on the floor and I know now that happiness is a mound of decaying flesh with an empty slit as pretty as a melancholic smile.
do you think my poetry brings laughter?
am I an ancient jester of poetic injustice?
I sure hope so.
I wouldn’t want anyone to feel like the way I’m feeling now.