When I die
I want to be able to be there
To laugh at the ******* act of everyone
Acting like they gave a ****
Saying that they always loved me
Never once even showing it
I want to see the sad look on their faces
When they see the dead look in mine
Acting like they knew me
There are farms with less **** in them

Who am I kidding
No one will show
And that's how I expect it to be

A harsh breath ices over my soul
which shrivels up but refuses to cease
My ruby jewel running a wicked race
the end of which is never told
The owner of the gust is not me
For from the skeletal society it be

Someone has died in satisfaction
his life taken by asphyxiation
A crow comes close by to roost
near the man held with the noose
Expectations formed a hemp binding
Pressure pushed the strings holding

Another shattered from hypothermia
his mind no longer in hysteria
Fangs of a beast cacaphonously crash
but soon fade as the man a hash
Lack of human warmth drained
Pathos of his predicament claimed

One more exploded onto cold concrete
jumping free from a tight restraint
Belligerent buzzing blasts through
feeding on crimson blood just drew
Endless horizons rest on the tower
man consumed by endless power

I took my hand and grasped rubber
carbon-iron alloy spelling trouble
At my chest I flash the deliverer
aiming at one who is none the wiser
You can hear a thunderclap and the rain
for life from this lad has been drain

I jest.

Human nature dictates we protect
even if our minds are not intact
My spirit may be wholly extinguished
but to the bitter end my flesh pulsated
Only in dreams can I **** myself
for then I can expose my unhealth

Not with a smile spread across my lips
Or an energetic laugh
Making my two friends holler with joy
As I spill out a witty remark.

But rather
With downcast eyes
Glaring at the shadowed pavement
Hoodie dangling from my shoulder
Stack of binders desperately trying to slip from my grip.
The moon beginning to make its descend
Behind the towering bus stop
Teenagers huddling around each other
Whispering into the muggy dawn.

My brain fuddling with sleep deprivation
I was always exhausted
Nothing satisfied my body  
Not the ambitions
Pumping in my veins
Strolling down the bustling streets
Of the city that never sleeps
Committed to land a position
As a front page writer
For the New York Times.

This routine of waiting
For a dream so far out of my reach
Is monotonous.
A cycle I can't quit
Even if I was granted the choice

My stomach hurts a lot,
when i worry the most...

i meant, never to say,
but i said the worst...

i hurt you more,
when, bitter words, i say...

i do not know,
what to do or how to repair!

the broken thread,
that still is here and there.