My life, my existence
Has become
Cigarettes, ***, indigo ink
Wishing, to make it
Through the day
And wishing I had
The guts to die
I hope, secretly
For a stranger
A human shaped hurricane
Someone new
Who doesn't know my history
Someone to set me free
My perfect, imperfect
Stranger
Wherever can you be?

When I am dead, reclaim me
When I am dead, our earth
Though it will be mine, no more
Will reclaim me
It will have my body
Like hyenas, upon my empty carcass
Or crows, on battle fields
I shall cease to be
My body will be of the earth
Because in these, once, the vessels of our opinion and our prejudice
Are things, that allow
For one more day
One infinitesimal second
They allow, the earth, to limp on
Existing, decaying
For one day longer

This pain, this ache
Within my chest
It hurts me, I wish, I could rest
I would take, for any price
A moment's peace, a restful night

Coffee cups and ink stained hands
Half finished thoughts, part written papers
Aching, craving, sentiment
A purple book, so innocent
Chronicling an atrophy
Of soul

Another 20p in the jukebox
Another has-been song
The bar is full of people
Each one moving along
They exist, satisfied
In their own small bubble
Each person is alone
This is what we call a life
This is all we've ever known

I am floating, drowning
In a *** dream
Words float, about me
Out of reach, as I am out of touch
Here and there, a wanderer
But I do not call to them
I see them, they try
To mend nets, to close the holes
Retain some of the cosmos
That slip through
I hear their low, anguished moans
Moving through, a dream of dreaming
Clocks, melting into a pool of abstract
As time itself ceases to believe
I wake, clocks are solid
The universe is not running
Reality reigns again

Four shots of ***
Then I write
Grandiose, I soliloquise
And my pen tracks across the page
Talking of being forgotten
As they themselves shall be
Then, my mind afire, and exhausted
I collapse, into the oblivion of sleep
This is but practice for death
I wake, and the process begins anew

I came, or was ******
Into the world
A half formed thing
I have limped through life
The waters of the universe
Slip through my fingers
I cannot cup my left hand
To catch the falling stars
Nor have I, all my brain
With which to comprehend
The nothing, that is our existence
I have existed, set back
Striving, for chances
To be, the same
I have thrown away
Gold gilt books, of wisdom
And sweet fruits of life
To follow others, to rot
And ruination, to be in company
To feel normal, and be not alone

I am a chance
Standing on the back of great improbability
Formed by sheer coincidence
And the random vastness of the universe
Yet I am supposed to
Believe?
In meaning, purpose, no
How may I?
My very essence
What mystics call a soul
Is but the product
Of a million, random
Bizzare happenings
That impressed themselves
Forcefully upon my psyche
How then, if this, is 'life'
May I believe
In meaning, or purpose
How, I wonder

The raindrops touch, my skin
And then are gone, absorbed
To be dead
Until I sweat, or ****
Or weep bitter tears
I wonder, what they witnessed
Created in high, tumultuous clouds
To fall, to fall amidst
Lightning and thunder
To experience such
Only to die, mere feet
From the earth
Because of one, such as I