A Buried Post

What drives me, how am I still alive, why hasn’t my hand performed a slight trick with a blade that could sink mercifully deep?

A shaft of metal to launch though its barrel a final sleep

Little shapes of powdered chemicals, another route to the land of eternal bliss

A hotel room would make for the perfect place

How am I still able to resist the thoughts that with moon fuelled strength make their case so sweet?

What is my reason to live?

These words are almost as unsettling as my inability to find that peaceful stability I crave, the thing to restore order to the overgrown wreckage of a life that I have to navigate every second I am awake

Doth my finger not float upon the trigger of my own self destruct, is it not enough

I have to wander now just much of this is a letter of intent

Final words that rest upon my fevered dreams with a looming threat

Life, her, the dream she denied

Distant now as into the night I drift

Can a man lose the ability to care? Or is it the inability to care that serves to protect?

My tears are dry as even when faced by emotional torrents of pure distress I find the mind willing but the body weak

A single damp blink is the most I can manage to aid emotional release

So if my own depression is not enough, what will it take?

I played the game with my crippled self that for a time so short was able to accomplish the illusion of happiness that is so fake

I mourned her lose and went on the hunt to find someone that could replace, someone that could compare to the women that I hold in such regard

But every effort I make is thrown off by cupid’s cruelty, to see others around me happy a horrific taunt

For fear that she will read what I write I am held back from the three words I so wish to repeat, a moments satisfaction would be cause of a lifetime’s defeat

Depression my old friend, how is it you haven’t won…

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