Insomniacs have trouble relating to Martin Luther King Jr.
This is it. This is the suffocating feeling. This is the knot in my throat that just won't go away. This is the heaviest weight tied to my ankle that's pulling me deeper and closer to the bottom of this black sea of anger, loneliness, hopelessness, jealousy, frustration, failure, despair, misery, and ultimately death. This is the shot you hear in the middle of the night and the removal of all doubt that everything isn't going to be okay. I died long ago, and my soul was left in such a miserable Rigor Mortise position.
I don't know how to say this poetically, or how to say it so that it's interesting to read but I want to die. I want so badly for a stray bullet to come ripping through the streets and catch me right in the heart. I would lie there on the street dying alone and I would look up into the night sky and take one last mortal glance at the stars before I became one of them.
"Look there's my mom! Ah! That's the same suit she wore to court! I told her she looked pretty in it, maybe that's why she wore it today," I tell the man who is standing beside me looking at his fingernails and pretending to lend me his indifferent ears, "So, not to be rude or anything, Mr. Shakespeare, but what are you doing here?"
"It is not of my own that I stand here with you. I was given this duty by the Greater Power of the above sky; so blue. 'All great writers'He spoke unto me, young lad, 'Must be together in their final moment.' Here I am, young lad, and here you are. Unappreciated, forever more."
"You mean God thinks I'm a good writer?" Such flattery!
"Were," he spoke bluntly and painfully. I saw my mom bend over to hug someone, and then I realized who it was.
"Hey! There's Emma! I should run over and. . ." Bill looked at me with a raised eyebrow. For being such an amazing writer, he didn't have to use words to tell me I couldn't just "run over there and hug her." My burden was my own, as they are all our own. Some take that burden and live with them. Some succumb to it. Some let it take them over. Some sit on their bathroom floor sobbing as the remove the blade from their Bic Razor and wind-up making small talk with William fucking Shakespeare at their viewing.
You know why I'll never kill myself? Because I'm afraid the suicide note won't be well written.
I don't know how to say this poetically, or how to say it so that it's interesting to read but I want to die. I want so badly for a stray bullet to come ripping through the streets and catch me right in the heart. I would lie there on the street dying alone and I would look up into the night sky and take one last mortal glance at the stars before I became one of them.
"Look there's my mom! Ah! That's the same suit she wore to court! I told her she looked pretty in it, maybe that's why she wore it today," I tell the man who is standing beside me looking at his fingernails and pretending to lend me his indifferent ears, "So, not to be rude or anything, Mr. Shakespeare, but what are you doing here?"
"It is not of my own that I stand here with you. I was given this duty by the Greater Power of the above sky; so blue. 'All great writers'He spoke unto me, young lad, 'Must be together in their final moment.' Here I am, young lad, and here you are. Unappreciated, forever more."
"You mean God thinks I'm a good writer?" Such flattery!
"Were," he spoke bluntly and painfully. I saw my mom bend over to hug someone, and then I realized who it was.
"Hey! There's Emma! I should run over and. . ." Bill looked at me with a raised eyebrow. For being such an amazing writer, he didn't have to use words to tell me I couldn't just "run over there and hug her." My burden was my own, as they are all our own. Some take that burden and live with them. Some succumb to it. Some let it take them over. Some sit on their bathroom floor sobbing as the remove the blade from their Bic Razor and wind-up making small talk with William fucking Shakespeare at their viewing.
You know why I'll never kill myself? Because I'm afraid the suicide note won't be well written.