But Who Knows
there are moments, Mike,
when I could,
oh, so very easily,
put a barrel in my mouth
and just do it.
In the time it takes
to put a bit of pressure on the trigger,
it's all over,
and the bullshit and my feelings
won't matter any more.
Glad that the thought passes,
as it usually does,
but I can imagine just how easily
it could happen.
It just piles up and builds up
and you keep it in,
you don't say anything,
because that's already wrong
before you open your mouth...
but you could make such a perfect
and very impacting statement,
and when you get to where
you are thinking like that,
then your sanity is gone
and you know you won't care in a moment.
I am so very tired of being wrong
all the time.
Tired of being talked to in a scolding voice –
I cannot help it
that I can no longer do things,
that I am
such a fucking burden on others,
that I have made bad decisions
and now I have to hear about them
every single fucking day...
but don't worry, my friend, my son...
I do not plan to do anything stupid.
At least not now
or any time soon.
But who knows
what the fuck tomorrow may bring?
Comments on this poem/writing:
|mental (18.104.22.168) -- Thursday, August 22 2019, 12:32 am|
I sometimes do stuff like that to feel the thrill of a gun barrel to your mouth or digging a knife into my arm. I guess it's thrill of almost doing it. good write.
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