I wish to understand, I wish oh how I wish. Will I ever be thee one to hold a gun toward myself to have a last moment of thought, before I pull the trigger toward one and regret it a second before my purposeful end?

What shall one do, if they are trapped inside their mind as they rot in bed with the flu? What would you do if you were trapped by thoughts of death and purpose? would we all end up with the same end, or maybe a twist to the plot?

the questions I beg mercy for thee to answer, will never ever be enough for thee as I only gave my words, not my tongue, nor my throat. What can one give, to hold the answer of life? Nothing, as thee will never tell.

Who am I if I cannot think, cannot speak, and cannot show?

who may I be if my thoughts are a mess, are a muse, and are at war with me?

I want to be happy, be glad, and not ever, ever, be sad.

My thoughts are too deep, even for the most deepest people you'll ever meet. Am I one with my own ending? and ending of sorrow, confusion, and regret? Or am I the answer to what thee seek?

One writer knows another
Who knows one known by the first

Small world, isn't it?

I'm afraid my words
Will forever rest on
This mediocrity pillow
And I shall never be
Worthy of the
Muse's kiss