I think I need a glass of water-
but I guess that would ruin the point,
to rid this world of myself,
sans I is a world to rejoice.

But something bitter came my way,
it stopped me in my tracks,
downing downers, feeling
the cuts along my back.

I thought first, of the windmills,
of an April in Paris,
this is a feeling that
I digest with the pills.

I thought second of fient,
in their imprecation I had
become, nay, grown so
used to the thought.

Except late at night,
I would pay to make it stop.

The third thought was the killer,
poised with a knife above my head,
stabbing viciously, cleaving the flesh
from my withered wrinkled bones.

We could've had a ****** good time.
Isn't it pretty to think so?
Late at night I ponder it.
Hemingway, of all the things.