I think I'd rather not have days off.
85% are spent just staring into space,
my muse dead at my side for so long the corpse is already bone.
It's hard to speak or play with a person who pushes you away because he doesn't understand,
and while I love her I've always felt like there was a wall between us.
It feels like every day is a curse when everything is cloudy,
when you annoy the people you care about,
Every moment you think you should just leave these white pills behind,
because in your mind the madness still scratches at the door,
I could drown in it once more, I wasn't happier, but I was more creative,
but that never did anything for me,
dozens of poems and a few short stories later and I can't even get a "U suk fag8t."
It must be bad when your work doesn't even attract scorn, it means it is bland.
I just want to sometimes . . . sometimes in the dead of night . . .
die by the sword, with a bullet in my lungs,
dreams all wrung out,
what's left is no fun, Not yet, not yet,
A spattered head on the ground, a trail of bodies marking my frown,
Not even that, a straw death waits for me, a life of abstract failure and misery,
with the scorn of everyone around me,
A hang man's noose braided by time,
so pathetic I make it like a nursery rhyme,
a scheme, a dream, a dream for every scheme,
a thousand failures and endless screams,
those long nights with the knife and how much euphoria I felt,
when steel bit my flesh and on my tongue did blood melt,
I'd drink my pain and eat my flesh where I could again,
but Well is my Butrin, my mind and life bland.
Just kill me.