browsing the poetry section of a local bookstore
by joshua-lederman
I thought about killing myself today...
again
for the ump-teenth time this month.
I was wearing that yellow polo
and thumbing through the pages of a book
of poems
by Bukowski
if I could only write like him,
I thought --
then I’d be somebody.
I don’t even like that shirt
but I wear it anyway
because
it’s comfortable.
maybe that’s exactly
how I feel
about my
on-again-off-again
relationship
with my
suicidal thoughts –-
I’d never actually do it,
I tell myself
*I just like to think about it
because
it’s
comfortable*.
oh --
we’re such silly creatures of habit
aren’t we?