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?