I don’t know how much time I have left
before I leave the body I’m currently in
and become a feast for the worms
All the time, everywhere
there’s aways some brainlet trying to tell me
what I should do with my time
Money, career, success
And all this stuff I’m not sure if
I care about at all.
.
Can you read my mind?
Can you read my poems?
If you do, you probably know
I’ve never feared death
maybe once,
but at that time I was just a really confused girl.
You know i’m ready for anything now
I’ve grown quite fond of pain
Throw your worse at me
Make me go through the loneliest valleys of misery
Make me look death in the eyes once again
I’ll probably just write some shitty poetry about it
Most of my art came from anguish, anyways.
But If you feel like I’m ready to leave Earth, then
Take my soul
Tomorrow, as you will
I feel like I’ve already died
a hundred times in this lifetime
slowly, it started to make me feel like
a ressurected corpse,
lost, roaming.
But I don’t want to get too dramatic about it, so
If you feel like I haven’t gone through enough shit already
Just keep me here
I’ll try not to be
A little bitch about it
I’ll devote myself to love
and knowledge,
and beauty
and pain.
.
I’ll experience everything,
everything.

news announcing the death of (my?) people;
dogs barking in the streets;
butterflies flying through the window;
a plethora of small funerals for rats;
melancholic music plays on the screen
as I lay with my cat on the sun;
there is no purpose.
.
watching words float out of my fingers;
no, just another solitary night.
despite all the
butterflies inside my room;
my thoughts are lonesome;
as an old woman cooks dinner
in the room next to mine;
there is no purpose.
.
waking up in a Saturday morning;
butterflies inside my head;
sitting against the walls of reality
as if there was no wall, at all.
stranger's face on the mirror;
a solitary tear down her cheek;
a scream,
an outburst;
there
Is
no
purpose.