Thursday, April 30, 2009

The Suicide Trip

Black and huge,
The ghosts of anger rise
I am not surprised
I saw them coming from miles away
The choking feeling in me
Is my soul screaming
Wrapped in fucking chains of silver
This is no life
This is no life
We were promised more than this
This is not it
This is shit!
This is just impotent anger
And I am made of it.
If, just if I had a gun
It would be fun
To place it in my mouth
Kiss its barrel
Feel the end so close
And think about it, without pulling the trig
The end, beautiful.
-=-=-=-=-
Whatever. I am not going to hold myself back if I become a bad
impression on the kids, or if people get offended by my words, or if
people kill themselves on reading these poems. Fuck it.

6 comments:

  1. Here's one more morbid point:

    (silly I know)

    He was dark and handsome and long, there was such a coldness about him but I was too attracted to resist.

    He invited me to taste him, and so I slid the length of him into my warm and inviting mouth.

    The last thing I remember him saying to me, is "Do you swallow?"

    Then everything was black.

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  2. MOnk-E....yup, that's me, as I have always been!

    AJ...that's a cool one! rocking! :)

    N

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  3. Yay meeee!!

    Are you sure you are not just saying that to give me a smile? ;)

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  4. i've never held a real gun in my hands, but this is exactly waht i think of when i hold a knife in my hands. or sit on the wall of the terrace on the 25th storey :)

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  5. AJ... ;)

    Kris... it is interesting to think of that. Very interesting. I have spent many memorable sundays thinking thoughts like this :D

    N

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