Sometimes, things are bad for me,

age has nothing to do

emotions are real, very real.

strong enough to guide me to the bathroom

where I sit contemplating the very nerve of my exsistance.

I don't need to live.

I don't want to exsist.

To much is on my shoulders.

I look up to my ceiling and close my eyes.

Imagine? IMAGINE? My body loosly swinging around? my head bowed, my eyes closed, my neck supported by the noose with unimaginable power?

Imagine the music that plays in repete to soothe me as I plan to eternally sleep

"I DON'T NEED YOU ANY MORE YOU'RE NOTHING"

The cure plays for me a song.

I wake up from my imaginitive state. and walk away from the evil that wants me.

I can't understand my very own intellegence

and my spirit is unconnected to me

and I'm unconnected to me.

god help me.

I open a book.

Blank, and still like me

but my book is clear of confusion and mixed neurotic behavior.

I close my eyes and transmit my sins over

I close my eyes and write the visions I see, the ones that possess me.

my book is full of emotions. my book is neurotic, my book is becoming alive and depressed.

and I am free, and blank and finally clear.

I close my eyes.