Goodbye.
What else should i say?
It's better for me to go,
Than to suffer and stay.

You probably wouldn't care anyway,
Just read this and throw it away,
I wrote it like it was a story,
And for that i am truly sorry.

I wrote suicide notes like love letters,
Maybe a bit too much.
Maybe a bit too often,
With those depressing words and such.

I wrote suicide notes like love letters,
Carefully chose every word.
Desperately trying to tell you,
That to me you meant the whole world.

I wrote suicide notes like love letters,
It almost felt like a crime.
Put my pen down like a weapon,
And glance at you one last time.

So there's this girl
A small girl with tired eyes
She says she loves me
And I wish that I could believe her
That she was anything more than just
Water flowing through my hands
And when the bucket is empty
I'll still see her, and it won't be the same

So there's this woman
A stressed woman with worried eyes
She sees nothing more than the night before
She asks "Are you okay?"
And I tell her, "No, I'm not."
And we leave it at that.
And the next day
We do the same thing.

So there's this gun
A gifted gun with one beckoning eye
It is darker than anything I've ever stared at.
And when I look into it, I get scared.
Because I want to be whole again,
To feel the sun on my skin
To feel that hair in my face
To feel those lips on mine.
But the sun is killing me.
Because I can't be your sun.

So there's this note.
You don't have to read it
It doesn't have much merit.
I just thought about you
So I found my gift.
My wonderful god given gift.
To leave everyone I care about.
Because the sun gives you cancer.

When you read a poem from another era,
where certain themes were forbidden,
it feels as though the author died in that moment,
unable to express the words exactly as they wanted.

I’ve been listening to trash techno since morning, I need energy.   the last month of autumn, So enjoy this damp warmth, those who love it.
I bought a very warm coat for winter,
I’ll probably only wear it at a resort.

Google Assistant is reminding me that my birthday is coming up, I'm turning 34, and this age doesn't make me happy anymore. It especially annoys me when people call once a year just for this and don't think of me the rest of the time.

In a maddened world that has taken root within us, we are poisoned, poisoned by the selfishness of leaders for whom no dose of calming medicine can be found.

I woke up early today. I have a lot to do: handwritten texts to type up on the computer. But I’m feeling lazy even the thought of lifting a finger for this work feels like a chore, even though it’s paid.

In one sentence, I came across a thought on realism it said, “How real are we?” I think we might actually have a chance to be real.

Concrete trees,
buildings and houses.
A world covered by concrete,
it became a barren, empty place.