Spring

Spring burns,
Fire in the blood.
Old sounds call,
Waking the ancient soul.

It gropes for clear air,
Clearer conscience.
Simplicity of survival,
Harsh truth of the untamed.

Firelight dancing shadows,
Moonlights frail bones.
Stripped of the inane,
Down to a crows laugh.

Spring burns,
Turning my blood.
Old sounds call,
Straining my chains.

Forlorn hopes

I wish to retreat to the safety of a fantasy world where survival is clear cut and living is an obvious choice. I wish to seek solitude and thus peace. I wish to fuck myself brainless and spend the rest of the day laying in a pool of bodily fluids.

I wish for many things that shall never be true.

My birthday is one week from now and I feel that it shall be wasted. A year ago this time I was ready to kill myself. Now I don't know what I'm ready for. Maybe nothing. Things have changed, as they always tend to do.

I still get the urge to end this inanity but I resist, waiting for something more. Waiting to find some reason and meaning in my life that will give me purpose. I want conflict, I want terror, I want horror. Doubtless I will regret these words if the day shall ever come.

I don't know how I made it this far. Hope, that indestructible and yet almost ethereal thing that ties me to this world. Is it wrong that I hope the future holds destruction? Do I care? No. I just want something to live for.

And if that conflict should tear at last that string of hope, then I shall feel great relief at finally being able to end my life without the burdens of conscience I now hold, and at last this futile struggle will be at an end.

I just want a reason to live.