Weapon Made of Paper

Roped up like a towed-away truck.
Fucked up like I’ve never believed in luck.
Even though I can’t breathe,
I can still see, and
I can still think.
The deed no longer merits finishing.

Passed out like I’d been at work all day.
Blacked out like eternity is finally here to stay.
Even though I’ve run out of life,
I still believe in the power of time, and
I still believe I will, one day, feel fine.
My life no longer is mine.

Liked it like I’d fallen in love.
Write it like no one has ever done.
Even though my pen has run dry,
I still feel that the rules of the unsaid still apply, and
maybe things will get better between suicide and I.There is still a very substantial divide.

Crying like I’d fallen from my mother’s arms.
Striving like I’ll eventually be out of harm.
Even though I’m always on the edge of a cliff,
I still know I’m throwing another fit, and
you, dear, reader, should by no means give a shit.
I often mistake a ridge for a cliff.

Rediscovered like I’ve found the same chest of treasure.
Recovered like this is some new kind of pleasure.
Even though I know the first names of all the ER nurses,
I still know I can defeat my curses, and
my weapon may be found somewhere within these verses.Each day, it seems my opinion reverses.

Delivered like Jesus really actually is my savior.
Triggered like I must correct some unhealthy behavior.
Even though I’m a victim of psychotherapy,
I still know they don’t have all of me, and
I still know suicide and I can create some kind of treaty.
After all, I am well-armed with soft words and good deeds.


Technically, Yes, It’s Legal

I know the undying dream
of slipping on one of the attic steps –
One .moment. categorized:
Accident.

The categories range from
intoxicated
to
suicide.

Most are boring.
Suicide, however, is interesting,
mostly because it’s intrinsically attractive.
It appears in numerous old folk narratives,
but hell, those people never really lived,
unlike Elliott Smith. Suicide he did commit. But that’s enough about him.
I have attempted this unpunishable sin.
I was preoccupied with it,
at least for .moments. that seemed infinite.
It took its time for the fuck of it
for a lack of other important business
like killing off the president.
That motherfucker needs it. But that’s more than enough about him.
I was obsessed with it.
I was more in love with it –
by me it was undividedly hated.
But it had hate for all that lived,
almost as much as I had for it.
Me, like the kid who lost his best friend…
He was confused with it. But no one talks about him.

Suicide almost took me from my best friends.Because of this,
I am more than determined
to keep it from happening again (the almost, that is)
I’ll fight it with my blue bloody hands.
It will not steal me from my best friends.
The thing about suicide is,
it only takes one fuck-up hit
and you’ve done yourself in.That’s it.That’s the end.
No more “’round the fuckin’ bend.”
Immediacy has become your sole friend.Yeah, this is the end.You’ve known this since you were ten,
since you were lost in a blood-bath bed.

End.


* Manifesto Nihilo *