Yearning
I killed myself when I wrote this poem, yet,
a part of me lives to read it.
With each word written the ink from the pen stains the
paper, as if staining is life's potential.
I have a spoiled taste in my mouth, with
liquor and anti depressants.
Liquor slowly numbs my throat.
The pills gives me my reason.
I sit with a friend, she asks with a
lack of interest; "How are you doing?"
I reply,"Fine", like always
you should know that.
Hours later but not fast enough;
I sit in my cornered room of my house,
confined within these four walls.
The stain of my blood is endless.
I laugh a little beforehand...
You see, it's funny, the bullet from my
revolver tasted better than life itself.
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