A laptop light, a half eaten cereal bar, and a major suicidal tendency.

I haven’t left my room in three days.

The demons in my mind have escaped my body
and barricaded shut my doors and my heart.
I sit here staring at creatures that do not exist
crawling up my walls and laughing in the shadows.
The only sound is of sombre songs playing on
repeat, attempting to **** my sadness with tears,
and the scribbling and tearing and screaming of
pages as I scratch my soul onto them
covering my arms in blood and ink and tears
praying that eventually I will succeed,
and my pain will finally assent from my body
onto paper, and lay there eternally in long thin letters
that I can ****** into the void for all the other souls
begging for help at 3 in the morning to hear, and I will
finally be free, to sleep.

The spirit is a real thing,
No matter how badly we'd like to convince ourselves this is our only stop in the universe,
Or we are a fragment of some wild imagination.

And maybe we can't touch everyone,
And not everyone we've smiled at in our lives will remember us in the long run,
But our essence and energy will linger around those who got to love us,
And the places we bought our after work drinks and early morning coffees,
Keep them comfortable,
And give them reminders of who we once were,
The presence we offered,
Soft or strong,
Something still tangible even after we've found our way into the dark.

Half alive,
Fireside,
Overdosed,
I survived.

Drowned in beer,
In the clear,
Pills in my head,
Can't steer.

Summer night,
Candlelight,
Heavenly hell,
Burning bright.

Riddled thought,
Can't get caught
Smelling of sweat,
Waiting to rot.

Slow suicide
On the porches of the houses on the hills.
In the cobblestoned sidewalks in the centre of everything,
The car frame almost melting in the mid day sun.  

The faces always look so sad,
And sometimes angry with me,
When I leave the coffee, barely touched behind,
And walk with my hands locked, leaving with someone I don't know.

Slow suicide
In the bathroom of a childhood friend,
In a painted cotton shirt.
Taking it off with the camera on me,
Held him captive in my body.

The faces look so pleased,
So in love with the moment, but not me.
When my thoughts turn demonic and ***** out the things I never thought I could say,
But there I went saying them.

Slow suicide
On the highway going 110,
In the radio, in the songs that sing me nearly to sleep.
The lights keep flashing but they don't bother me.

The faces don't show at all,
Except for the masked strangers in my head,
When I think away from the mess I've made in front of myself,
And try to disguise my impurities,
My strange fetish for fear,
But I try not to let it get cleaned up.

When you grow used to my body
will you crave another?
Will your eyes no longer find awe
if I slowly undress
in the curve of my waist,
and will your caress
of my smooth skin
no longer be an instinct
but instead perfunctory
Will the endless nights of passion
be replaced with snores
as your mind
and your body bores
of what is always there
Or will our love run deep,
enough to keep
The interest, the care
With new layers of desire
unfolding
Mutual understanding
The moulding
of a connection and a strength
that runs in us, and round us and through us
so that no matter what comes our way
no other could evoke
a need to stray.