Lately, my purpose in life has been to kill myself on accident.  The high points of life have been so minute that I don’t even feel them; they graze my shoulder, like a bullet fired out of a gold rimmed musket. A knife sharpened in the fire pits of a sweat soaked blacksmiths shop cuts my wrists. No, a bullet enters my skull slowly creating a slow falling meteor to the ground, no.

A repeated falling body eyes clenched, hands open, just in time eyes widen slowly.

Arms stretch forward reaching for an embrace of some form.  I’m not suicidal, I’m realistic.

I wanted to go outside of my mind; all I saw was flying pigs and gods fighting the darkness that overwhelmed their wings. This is where I hide my things. I got tired of chasing dreams so I decided to stretch my arms out and reach some type of warmth. I found it.

Except I don’t know how to control it too well, my mind is feeble.

You say immature, I just say I’m depressed


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s