I really
can’t help but
wish that things had gone as planned.
I wanted them to
come upstairs and find my
dead body,
seemingly asleep.
Not even dead,
a coma at the least.
I wanted to
never wake up,
I wanted to
never go back.
I still want to.

At the
loony house, I
told them I was sorry.
I
told them that I
didn’t know what I was doing.
I told them I
didn’t want to die anymore.

Lies.
All of them.

Now I have
no means of hurting myself, no
way to cause any harm.
My pills are locked up.
I don’t have any sharp things.
I’m too wimpy to hang myself.
I guess if I
really wanted to die, then I would
find a way-
if there’s a will, there’s a way-
but who am I kidding.
Everything I
do and feel is
half-assed.
So is this.

I haven’t written in
MONTHS.
I’ve been saying it’s
writer’s block,
saying it’s my
lack of time...
So.
Many.
Excuses.
Do excuses count as
lies?
Just curious.

So I guess I should be coming to a
conclusion;
but to this
situation there is no conclusion,
why should there be one to this
poem?
Why should I care whether you
like this or not, whether I
end this well or not?

Oh yeah.
I shouldn’t.