Is it wrong to think
about suicide a few times a day?
Varied forms, the act
as if watching your body limp or slit
Bleeding, vomit, plump
with bulbous death firmly staunch
Crumpled in a bath tub
or slump carpet
A chord from a
ceiling, a gunshot in a public street
Flush to the skull
smiling at god waiting for the oblivion to swallow
Then the embarrassment
sets in
The gray
disappointment in self that I could not take it
The masochist in me is
chagrinned into perpetuation
The pleasure in the
monotony of the needle being un-lifted
The song on repeat
sensing what has always happened
The breaks, the
occasional pleasant choruses, illusions of reference once every five to ten
years
To know the depths of
distortion between what love might be
Digesting if that was
it, then one is truly lost for there must be
Something that
requires less drain to fulfilling the true thirst
The presence that is
absurd the connection to be seen and heard
Knowing the inanity of
asking for help, the audacity to look in another human’s eyes
And see their want to
be, please, or be intimate with you
The scoff, the initial
rebuttal of impossibility the wait for the death blow
To feel the passion of
one fighting for rather than against you
The nourishment in
such an act feels as alien as oxygen
Drowsy and coffin
finger nailed pressing for a manicure
To find a way out of
this death lust to not see the quotidian ritual of cessation
A self-staring snuff
film beaming into retinas orange and black campaign
For why not, the
weight too heavy and the history too problematic
The seesaw of faith
and hope to engage in yogic practice as medicinal illusion
Contact with a
divinity craving a deeper purpose to register in the undulation
A person, a being, a
counterweight somewhere in the reverberating grassland
To brush a cheek, turn
a head for a moment of contact to be at the passing door
In the instance of
confluence and not absent or stuttering dumb mute nonsense
To stimulate love
right in the core and rocket that interstellar voyage is possible
Here in the now and
that lion hope is what keeps me breathing like a beast of the arid savannah
In a staring contest
with the sun praying for the breeze
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