dying is living

I’m in pain,

all the time.

Everyday is agony,

im tired of this fight.

let me show you what I mean. 

So, I’ll make my cake

out of shotgun shells. 

Light it up

like a candle.

and let it blow me out. 

Pull the pin,

on the grenade 

as I cuddle with C-4

do you get it now?

or do I need to tell you more?

should I play with a hangman’s noose?

daggers, arrows, Spears?

this knife that I produce?

or syringes full of air?

i could go on forever,

im tired of being here.

dying is my living. 

I’m drowning in this air. 


This poem is about: 


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