10-11-09
Is there anything left to say,
When I feel this bad every single day,
And all I think about is my last breath
And all I dream about is sinking into
these bed sheets that I seem to never leave.

Any comfort has long waved goodbye
With a razorblade in hand and scratching
cutting with every swing of the hand,
Goodbye, goodbye.

When there’s nothing left to annunciate,
And all I’m doing is to procrastinate,
My own stupid and sure death
And all I think of is sinking into
these bed sheets that I seem to never leave.

Any comfort has long waved farewell
With a toast “I’d wish you well but we both
know that would just split your sides,
Catch you, catch you”.

When every comfort leaves,
Where do you turn to?
When every rational disappears on you,
Where do you turn to?
When each and every reason to live
seems to be shrinking,
What do you do?