Suicide, Assisted
This is killing me.
I’m reminding myself how with every word I write
that is accompanied with every thought I think
I am wearing down the dull edge of my mind
Neurons don’t grow on trees.
It keeps me awake at night but I will never find peace
Existential crisis won’t let me be
and I know I’m fingering the wound
Just writing this is, right now, is contributing
to a slow, miserable end being consumed by
a neurological fucking black hole
a stuttering, trembling, delirious final bow
That’s our real fate, buried in proteins and tangles
Our souls taken by corporeal, demented angels.
We may as well shit our beds now
because it’s all you can do when you’re old
