Twillight

Found this in one of my many hidden folders. Written god two years ago. It's what I would call a poem, but what do I know right??? ;)

I have been morbid of late. Why, I have no idea. The whole denial of existence, what's the point of living and just the state of being is enough to drive to despair. Oh god, my entries here have been so whiny and whingey it'd put Elizabeth Wurtzel to shame. And, does she whine! A paperback on a narcissistic, self indulgent whim. Maybe I should write a novel and get Prozac or some pharmaceutical company working on a new depressant to sponsor me because I whine. And whiny books sell. I'm not depressed, but hell I sure seem to whine a hell lot. I whine so much I could get boned by a stag in heat. I...

See?! See what I mean?

Back to being the undeniable poser that I am. And the despondent scat I'd like to call a poem:


It's almost six in the day. Distant typing coupled with this one clattering up the prison air ducts.

Nobody wants to leave. I don't want to leave, not for love of nauseating sights and smells but

Feet's too tired to lift and trundle down the subway with a weight of a confused soul who

Fantasizes of free falling tall storeys, cracking her spine while the train passes her by and

Dropping dead in an inane twist of fate,

Fatalism man-made,

So she could say her life was her choice and death wasn't a matter of

God.

...I give up.