It is a strange feeling, wanting to die but not being selfish enough to **** yourself. It is not a good feeling and it is not a bad feeling. Just strange. Like wanting to step out of a moving vehicle but the door is locked, and you're the one who locked it.

It's liberating, in a sense. To sever those stringy limbs that are clutching on to life and all its irrelevant attachments. Unbinded by society. The friendly release of death, all the familiarities of living still in tact. Immortality stolen directly from the suicide note. Shot through the heart, but still very much full of life.

Some pathetic hermaphrodite of irony and despair.

I think it stems from this futile awareness of a futile existence. I could live with a futile existence, but by some divine cosmic punishment am forced to be aware of my place within society. My place being an insignificant cell in a cell. And no body cares about a single cell within it. If one cell dies, it won't even notice it's gone, but simply continue as it was. But I refuse to give it the power to ignore my death. To stay alive is rebellion. To love and to live, in spite of life, is pure anarchy.

Your hands have stopped ticking for me
Yet I am frozen and you are free
You no longer have to tick tock
You have finally unbinded your lock

Where as I am drifting through space
Going nowhere without a single trace
I am lost amongst the empty galaxies
Like a child lost to the unforgiving seas

In my mind I hear your noise happen
I look around gaining my lost hope then
I think to myself that maybe its you
I lift my shoulders to see if its true

Tick.
My head swings up praying its no trick
Tock.
My heart aches to be free and unblock

Tick tock, tick tock.
I hear as you once again bind your lock

- E.A.F

We sing and we whistle;
my best friend and me,
together we live;
through our thoughtless singing.

We cry as time passes.
Inevitably,
As caged as we are;
We wish to be freed.

In songs we are flying,
unbinded, and
breathing,
in joy.

Then we come to;
the cage reappears,
I sigh in the moment,
falling? the tears.

Colorful blurs,
remarkable shapes,
I live in the moment,
completely unfazed.

Still we are burdened,
bruised in defeat.
we're giving up fighting,
we'll never be free.

Then I look over,
my friend is singing,
I feel so defeated.
Alone I will be.

I open her cage,
my small canary,
her little voice swoons,
as she happily, is free.

My friend is long gone,
my years have passed by,
sung I have not,
and alone, I will die.

I wish I could live
in my own little world
where the air would smell like
freshly bossoming gardenias and
sparkling green mint
where the sounds of the day
would be vibrant with laughter and words
guitars and pianos and drums
while at night
there float a single
lovely tune of a flute
stirring the leaves of the trees
the creases in folks' smiles
the longing in the heart
of the woman sitting quietly
upon the moon
An eternity of where
souls could fly and
dance and sing
where folks' feet bound lightly
above the sole of
a dimension of where
there are no tears and sorrow
no depressed feelings upon
the day mentioned as tomorrow
no cramped aching feelings
buried in the pits of stomachs
but be a place instead where
women's feat unbinded and long
men who may be 4 feet tall
where twisted chains
razor blades and sharp tongues
cease to exist
smiles and delight in eyes of
people once blind
wings unfolded and soaring
of those in flight
towards a better night
in a better light
I wish I could live
in my own little world
where everything
happiness perfection gratitude
Life
is free.

shaking phone call over discombobulated voices,
astroprojecting vocalizations through times pace,
my body wants to time travel to you,
through the regret free policy
has generated some regret
when smoked lungs need removal
so the chained spirit
can be unbinded
navigating through carcingentic fogs,
housing warming warning waning ways
downloading the feeling
well a copy of them,
similar to the copy of god
glanced at in the trees,
similar to the copy of god
hanging around my dinar table,
and i can't find the file
in the cobwebs of facts
containing previous knowledge
literalizing textureal distructions
of dreaming an alternative
where we could still be friends

Years later,
I let you see
the poems I
wrote about you
and you held them,
a tight, unbinded
book in quivering
hands and you
you didn't smile
and you didn't
thank me,
you just stood there
with your weak
brown eyes
and your strong fingers
and you took in my
attempts of
remembering you,
writing you like you were.