I couldn’t get any more tired
and slow.
I’m hardly even here
now that I think about it.
But if you sniff the air long enough
in the last place I remember being,
you’ll get a little whiff of me
maybe.
The scent would take you
to a very high and rotting memory pile
of people who were dragged,
kicking and screaming,
into my life
but stayed
for me
long enough
to not want to stay
anymore.
I reek of them.
depression
At the End of the Day We’re Not Okay
The sun comes up again
just in time to begin your routine that you don’t actually enjoy.
It’s really quite getting to you now and you’re starting to feel
hopeless.
Because you are, says your mind,
so you must be; you’d never lie to yourself.
You get up and do things that make little sense but you do them anyway because
maybe
they’ll make more sense this time.
Some people reveal themselves, and later,
you reveal yourself,
which is always a mistake because it makes them fade like the summertime
and you let them.
Nobody knows why but it’s probably because you’re hopeless.
The headpains should be too much for you to deserve
but you pull it off somehow.
And at a time like this,
the millionth time,
how do you forgive yourself?
You don’t.
Then the sun comes up
again
erasure
there’s still a bit of me left
it’s getting smaller all the time
don’t try to call me
you’ll get the answering machine
I’m just a quickly fading dream
it’s getting smaller all the time
The Turn of the Earth 