(Some doors open to me, even if I’d never have the reality actualized.  I must embrace all those thighs inside.  It’s the only way to grow my craft.  Day 152…)

I can’t believe suicide’s on my fucking mind.  I want to leave. I swear to God, I feel like death is fucking calling me…

It’s crossed my mind
Sever the veins in my wrist.
End this life
And be free
My spirit free
From the pressures life places on my shoulders
Poker chips that dare me to gamble
Praying I’d lose.

The haiku of the bullet
The slow sonnet of the blade
The prose of hanging until my breath fades away
Death is apparent
This logic
Infantile
Nursed by doubt
My soul shakes like dice
And the grim reaper and I are both hoping that I finally get this crap out

So I roll words along the table
Bet placed
And let fate determine in I keep going…