And I have severed the bridge,
The bond of the astral soul
To this corporeal form.
Similarly feeling, so far
From all that is tangible.
What I am, I don't know
And the point, in the grand scheme.
A stream of air, a speck of dust
Tiny particles without any meaning

Maybe it's all the avarice
The commonplace detachment,
Of trodden-life, taken as a game.
It is what it is,
The way things go,
A billion different ways
To say the same thing.

Stupidity is
A harsh buzz,
In a world of malice
And judgements.
Worse off are the wise,
For to use your eyes
Is to see that
Everyone is blind.

Another night,
Where I feel completely alone
Surrounded by people I care about.
What's the point?
Love coming at the price
Of self-sacrifice,
Break my body
Take control,
But what do you know?

Often not, is prayer
In fear of God
But of our fellow man

Staring at gravestones
Wondering what it is to
Exist, no longer.
Smell of sulfur,
Feel of bone;
Still as water.

There is a dead beetle on the floor in the bathroom.
It has been there for weeks.
Someone must have noticed it but paid it no mind.
More than someone.
Someones.
No one has bothered its carcass.
Its legs are curled in at odd angles, not unlike an infant sleeping.
Someone would notice an infant sleeping.
An infant sleeping on the floor of a bathroom.
Or an infant dead in a bathroom on the cold, grey tiles.

The color of its dark body is in stark contrast to the light floor, but still it is ignored.
Have I been bright enough in this life to stand out?
Am I light against the dark?
Or dark against the light?
Will I be remembered?
As I slide through the experience of living, I don't know what impression I've made.
Am I the dead beetle?
Will I be the dead beetle?
My life has not been bold.
One may only presume the same of the beetle.
There are too many people in this world for me to be a true stand-out.
I merely exist.
No matter my color against the background of life, I am simply waiting to be swept away.
As inconsequential as a dead beetle in the bathroom with little attention paid.

There is a saying that everyone dies twice.
First when you leave the mortal realm.
The second time when your name is last spoken and your memory ceases to exist amongst the living.
What if you never live and are paid no mind.
Can you really die then?
What if I am not even the beetle?
What if I'm less than a drop in the bucket in the universe and I slip through the cracks of society?
At least the beetle gets a poem.