I know that I have killed myself a thousand times in my head,
Never fully grasping the concept of leaving.
I do not know when the thoughts started,
I guess they've always been there,
Whispering and taking turns rotting my brain into the landfill of decay and broken thoughts.
No longer the pink fleshy muscle that sat presently in my head.
It had turned to tar,
Black and thick,
            R
               U
              N
               N
             I
            N
              G
Dripping,
Suffocating the light away from the open cracks where creativity once flowed through.
Unfathomable, the thought of dying, ceasing to exist.
What have I become?

Will not make you feel better about your hate
Your certified misspelled life that echoes solitude
Your craving for purpose
but still clinging to your virtual reasoning

This poem will not clot your wounds
neither be your salvation in your agony
or your hope in your fading conviction

This poem is not for the faint hearted
Or obtuse sluggish thoughts
the ones with trifling victories of life
that are swept away inevitably

This poem is nothing but a speck of your lives
it'll not suffice your haplessness
Or your pitiful endeavors

This poem will not reborn your hope
Whether it was written by Born
Or not

I don’t know who I want to be,
or even if I want to be,
but if I ever am,
I will be…fierce.