Take it slowly not too late to believe
Listen quietly silence flows through a sieve
It talks of the empty and of reprieve

Voids cavitate in my head and heart
My drink is lead in part
Slowly kills my head losing my heart
Not quite dead just wont start

Maybe it'll change but its a pity
Stuck here broke and down in the city
Get high and happy with my last fifty
Older every year but barely over twenty

I take it slowly tell myself I can still believe
Quietly cause the silence will outlive
The empty hollow me seeking a reprieve
Silence as I take my leave

Seventy two days and eight hours
It's been that long since she kissed me
How do I even enter the garden of eden?
To wither away is just the nature of flowers

Forty three days and seventeen hours
It's been that long since she last smiled
And to be honest I'm scared shitless
To live alone in a world that was ours

Twenty four days and thirteen hours
It's been that long since I heard her voice
I just want to let her know that I'm right here
I'll hold her hand as the illness devours

Seven days and one hour
It's been that long since she looked at me
It's her eyes that told me who I am
Now I just look in the mirror and cower

Eight hours and twenty seven minutes
It's been that long since life stopped making sense
The grandeur of this world are shy in comparison
Life is just not life without her in it

Fifteen minutes and counting still
It's been that long since I've been on the edge of this cliff
I turn to the gods I've rejected and pray
If there's a life after death, I'll do as you will

I don't want to die.

Death is so dramatic,
It changes plans and ruins days.
It affects more than one life.

No,
I want to disappear.

I want to one day be gone from the face of the planet,

the only hint that I ever was there in the sticker I gave my friend in kindergarten,
still stuck into a long forgotten notebook or a puppet.

The only memory left of me in the bag of someone who forgot to give back the pencil they borrowed.

The only trace of me,
in fading wet footprints on the sidewalk between puddles.


They say that when you die, you either go to heaven or to hell.

Or maybe you'll be incarnated into a delicate butterfly flapping its wings to the sound of a powerful stream.

Each believe in their own heaven,
imagining the perfect world for them.

And isn't that exciting?
That there's a life after death?


How do I explain, then, that my heaven is

the pitch blackness of the unending unconsciousness.

The quiet rest of the ground.

The forever closed eyes and

the stillness of the heart.


Living is the debt I pay for the world.
Why would I want to pay forever?


Someone once told me it sounds like I want to die and I said

No,
I want to disappear.

On a winter day I'm walking in the woods,
I'm walking with the trees;
their story-telling leaves beneath me.
How old, I often wonder,
Would one need to be
to read the dreams of trees?
Perhaps that's what we see
when we eventually leave
our livelihoods behind us,
and stumble in the woods
until our memories find us.

He stands there with a passive regard.
The silence mirrors that of a graveyard.
In front of a lit door,
enters the wintry air.
Extends his arm, welcomingly unbarred.

the concept
of an afterlife
qualified
only for
the most
holy of holies
is what scares
me
the most.

what if
i've been
good
my whole life,
but one part
of my heart
makes my
entry
rejected?

so what if
i'm gay?

at least
i'm not
as immoral
and hypocritic
as
you.