Sometimes, I wish to
move into the wilderness
and denounce my life.

I wear your sin
Upon my skin
Laced around the words
That I breathe in.

we're not making love,
love's existence is what created us,
we're just basking in the connection.

not claiming to be a poet,
just someone whose only friends
are bundles of words,
chewed upon pens,
and worn-down notebooks.

living is a conspiracy meant to make us comfortable
with the fact that we are nothing but
walking coffins.
coffins that harbor our dead, slumbering souls
souls that await their final burial.

that is the true purpose of our birth,
of our precious life
to transport us to a new destination.
souls are merely cargo.

but I don't dare complain, for fear of eviction
of what I've come to call
a miserable home
a humbling abode
my sanction of sanity.

Blackness envelops the hearts of the willing
and she stumbles along life like a broken-winged bird.
He gulps breath in with every beat of her heart -
that which sputters to a halting finale.

Without a fantasy or care in the head,
are we better off dead?

Silence amazes the heart of the broken
and the quiet is the final jab in
to the remaining hopeless heartbeat.
He shudders under the pressure of her sins.

Without a fantasy or love in our head,
are we better off dead?

Shovels bury things deeper than the dearly beloveds.
and the six feet down is multiplied.
His breaths have to dig deeper,
to find the beat they exist by.

Down into the grave they both go.

Without a fantasy or her in his head,
he knows he is better off dead.