i pen these thoughts
to make them real enough
to be ignored
much the same as how
the world turns its
blind eye towards the
heartmash of agonies
that scar my face and body

i cannot taste nor smell
yet i unwittingly find
i am forced to endure the
nagging stings of my own
neverending fantasies of
unburdening a too heavy mind
slitting open worn skin
to let the cicadas burrowed
in this dessication where
positivity is a stick and
carrot dragging this jackass
of poetic ineptitude onwards

it isn’t so much a longing
for death but a dire need
for peace in the tsunami of
depression battering constantly
that can only come from an
internment of ash in an
unmarked urn resting fitfully
on the mantle of hope’s summer
home on the banks of the styx

penning these thoughts
hoping to make them real enough
to crush them between callused
digits stained with a mix of
bloody ink and poisoned by
reality’s uncaring march towards
the inevitability of death