There are things I know far too well

Like the smells of funerals and cheap hotels

That ache in your soul when you know something’s wrong

A look that screams bluntly, “You don’t belong"

That fuzz around achievement that ruins it all

The curdled cacophony of the concubine’s call

The fear of not being remembered,

The assurance it wholesomely borrows

And the truth laced in all your tomorrows

Worries irrelevant and dispair profound-

Rhymes and obscurity must mean nothing to you

But for me, they linger and always hold true

Best be gone-

No more joking, for we are all haunted

Don’t mourn suicide-

It’s all they ever wanted.