index

Here I stand again at death’s door,

staring down at my hands,

one grasping a pint of rum,

The other was clinging to the white bag.

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I have unwoven the fabrics of my thoughts once again,

landing me at desperation row,

ready to plunge into the darkest crevices of this gloom-ridden mind.

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What shall it be?

A swig from intoxicating spirits to inebriate the mind from self-determintal thoughts,

Or a quick snort of the devil’s dandruff to sham a false belief of confidence.

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Pull me down on my knees,

and I shall repent for nothing,

But for my miserable existence, others had to cope with.

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I have nothing,

pull me into the depths,

My thoughts already roll with darkest despair that the end has not come soon enough.

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My book was never written,

only a sad, grisly cover,

with the one chapter,

telling the short story of my end.

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Keep your soul,

trade it for mine.

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Use me as the rug to be trodden on,

a rag to be strippend.

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My heart is already torn,

My thoughts are already broken.

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Standing here at death’s door,

I feel nothing,

Besides the relief for this bittersweet end.

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Pull me down into the depths of anguish,

to bring an end to this blue, desolate book.