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The Pen Lives On Part 2

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It’s fun to stop breathing.
I hope it’ll happen.
If I could only gather enough courage
to slash my wrists and dreams
in a bloody mess,
nobody would miss me or my writing
for too long. Never mind.
They’d find me, and keep me rooted to soil,
to the impostor that is love
and the world that spits in my face.

There’s only one way to die.
One way that would justify death,
not exhaust-breathing, nor jumping, nor cutting.
I wonder if I could just get a gun
and play Russian roulette with myself,
spinning the barrel over and over again,
shooting, shooting, shooting, never sure
when Death will come and take me away.
The rumors say he’s a hard, cold man
But I believe him soft and kind.

Love is a bastard.
As is friendship.
All either of them do is coax you into something,
learn all of your secrets,
and then dunk you into the mud, kick you around,
and leave you, their wicked faces smiling.
Which is why I never trusted them.
I never knew why every foolish person,
sails and oars cast overboard,
went such long distances for them.

Some books I’ve never read and never will.
Long, boring, winding stories,
all based on the same Shakespearean play.
I never understood why everything
cascaded down as it did. Romantics,
I now know, and money.
Money, the green thief of society!
How every man adores and dotes on thee!
How every man creates their shrine on the world
Built and destroyed by thee!

Leaving lets you avoid emotion.
I lie in bed alone and dream
of jumping on the first train to Russia
– because nobody wants to be in Russia nowadays –,
of waiting for the world to crash down behind me
as I plaster a two-fingered L to my forehead
and stick my tongue out at everything dying,
including myself, sooner or later.
I live only for one thing.
I live only to write.

The lessons I’ve learned in life:
She married him for his money.
Everything’s perfectly fine with me.
Masks cover feelings.
Not all was meant to be.
My parents think they love.
It’s fun to stop breathing.
There’s only one way to die.
Love is a bastard.
Some books I’ve never read and never will.
Leaving lets you avoid emotion.
I live only to write.
The pen lives on.

(2-14-17)

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