suicide

Choke

I think a lot,

which is to say

often, 

about how frozen

I am. 

Inaction

has become

an addiction. 

But that’s

a lie. 

I can tell it

to myself

and buy in, 

but I cannot slip it 

past you. 

You’d sniff it out. 

People I admire

talk of taking the chance, 

grabbing your desires, 

putting in the time

towards what you want…

and I shame myself

by doing nothing. 

I know

that they speak

the truest

of truths. 

But I know

only the frozen

and trapped.

To want freedom

and be locked up

by my own key…

it’s suicide

but I keep

passing out

and losing the grip

on my own neck. 

So every day

I renew the squeeze

one

more

time. 

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Gibbet

The workday
awaits me
like a noose
overhead.
It cannot be
avoided
and does not care
how I am feeling.
At some point
I will embrace it
and swing,
but for now
I only know dread
and the fear
of a black hood
I make for myself.

You know black…

You’ll know black when dying seems easy…

good.

I know black,

I’d like to die…

if it’d help…

doubt it.

Still, though….

Could black be any easier than slipping off,

casting away the harness and hooks of a palid life?

Pain is no excuse to stay,

pain is what staying brings.

It’ll only hurt, for one moment.

Am I close?

Damn straight.

So close that I see only more dark paths,

so close that I smell its warm breath,

dance in its cold arms…

God I’m close…

I’ll send you a post-card.