put this under your pillow

back in the day, i used to sit around wishing with my whole heart for a terminal illness. that was the most ideal of my fantastical suicide pipe-dreams. mostly because i knew i'd never have the guts. then later on i got some guts. later still, i'd just hope for a car to hit me when i was crossing the street. that's been the most enduring one, thus far. not all that creative, and worse- the cars always slow down. in university, medication quieted down those desires- and every other kind of desire as well. you don't feel bad, you don't feel good, you don't feel at all. that's when you begin to miss the warm blanket of depression. anti-depressants are like that annoying younger sibling who snaps the lead tip from all your pencils and then hides the sharpener so that when you go to write something- you no longer have the means.

i was going nowhere with this.

too many sharks
too many razor sharp rocks
too many ways to bleed to death
all nestled along your shore
well
i had me a life
of laundry days and
roast beef nights
but i left it out in the sun
too long
and it's done
don't worry
don't worry
non te preoccupa
and somehow it's so fitting
to think of myself
no deeper than the ink
or the paper on which i've written...
still me
"your forgiveness
ain't the neighbourhood
i'm looking to live in, baby"

+

on a side note...what's this about?