You know what’s fucked up? Me.There’s this thing I need called Help.I’m so messed up I’m not sure what I Need.It’s too much to bear, this Pain.We’ve caused it all with this thing we call a “Relationship”You want me - us in therapy.I don’t see how any amount of it would help, that therapy.In the end I’ll still be Me.But it’s falling to pieces, this relationshipWe have, and we need Help.It’s overwhelming; my Pain.What do I really need?I have no Godly idea what I need.The thing I don’t need is therapy.Because I can deal with my own pain;With just me, myself and I.
To carry on with life is hard.The temptation to end it always lurking behind a shadow.Have you reached out to it yet?Called its name?Asked it to kill you and make it all go away?Trust me I haven't,Been tempted but no.They say I have too much to live for,All those people who follow behind me.Beg me to take them and make them mine,Tell me I'm perfect and everything they want.But I tell myself its lies,None of it's true.I'm far from perfect,Why won't you admit it?I scream in my head for release that will never come,
My rage is building,I'm helpless again.Pull me back,I'm falling again.A rollercoaster of emotions,Such unneeded issues.I'm hurting again,And now what?It's all adding up,About to come out.But not anymore,I pulled it back in.It's sitting inside,Behind my well mentioned facade.I love that thing,It never leaves.
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.