The night you got shot
I pushed your scrambled remains
like a sack of red meat
onto the deck of the chopper.

I wonder what it felt like,
those bullets tearing through you?

It must have been quick,
but what is quick to the dead?

It's forty-three years later
and I am sixty-four
but you will always be nineteen.

Which of us was lucky?

Last night you appeared in a dream
all shot to pieces and gave me
an enormous, important hint
about my future which I forgot
as soon as I woke up.

Believe me, buddy, you haven't
missed much. The world is still all
****** up and don't mean nothing.

No one has learned a single ****** thing.

Would you have had a good life?
A happy life? A successful life.
All pretty much moot.

But at least, you would
have had a life.

I could never
be married
to myself.
We just aren't
that compatible.

  ~mce

I'm feeling a thousand years old,
my head is grey, as grave as pale,
dead faces. I'm already dead,
as of now, I'm reflecting on it.

I'm feeling a thousand years old
like a thousand year old patient
with a black hole for a soul
and curtains over the head
to keep it dark like the black universe
but the stars are supernovas
split open like a woman
giving birth to despair.
She bleeds pain from her eyes,
clear like deep epiphanies.

I'm feeling a thousand years old,
my head is grey like heavy clouds,
it rains all day and never stops,
I want to shed
my hair like teardrops
from my cheeks to the floor,
sad, deranged and nothing more.

I'm feeling a thousand years old
like a thousand year old agent
of reproduction. I'm giving birth
to so much chaos and entropy,
it amazes me. I don't see
any reason to live,
any reason to be.

I want to die.

Today is my birthday
and I wish it wasn't
such a disappointment
but everything feels so
pointless.

I don't want to live
in this constant discomfort;
even the air is a nuisance
and I'm irritated.

Just shut up
and get the **** away from me...
I feel nothing.

before you **** yourself,
just remember
that there are
places you have not been
and things you have not seen.
and poems to awe
art to draw
fields to walk through,
people to talk to,
music to take in,
games to win,
and books to be read.

so why,
oh why
do you wish
to be dead?

I want to melt
and never get up,
just sink
and give up.

I want the floor,
me and the ground,
we'll be happy together.
I'm safe and sound.

I want to faint
for lack of motivation
to stand and be
a good little human.

I want the floor
to consume me,
for the door to open,
let through my heart,
my entire heart
to rest someplace
where I feel less wanted,
just dead, you know?
Human.

Everything's the same to me,
just another trap,
but I'm free now.

Self hatred
is my way
of telling myself,
"I love you,
even if you're a twisted ****."