The Book of the Dead.

I look inwards again into that dark sea that is myself, sitting on a throne, this time holding two golden cups.
One for my sorrow, and another for my hate.
One turns to pain, as the other turns to anger, my disdain for my existence.

I pour each one out every night, but they just fill up again by the next morning.
An endless fountain of pain.
It is as if I am tattooed on the inside of my skin, as if I am marked, or within my bones perhaps, and I cannot escape it.

As though it is within me like my blood,
a crushing sickness running through me like a cancer.
I sit and I watch it slowly destroy me.
Taking away any good memories I had left.
Taking away my smile, killing my inner child.
Not one person asked for this death,
not one would die this way.

I question everything now, for what human beings have the power to create such suffering on their own?
And surely life cannot create these complexities on its own.

I feel as if I am being handed over to this thing, like someone or something wants me, something is taking me, calling me, I feel consumed by it, eaten by it.
It claims my life, my hands are tied.
There is no more daydreams, for there are no more days.

Never got any flowers when I was alive, why should anyone bring any now that I am dead?

Wrap me in my dreams as a child,
as I feel the light of the sun.
colors and toys,
fun and joy,
small the mind,
big the heart.
The self not seated within the body, as I
walk around wearing clothes with shoes attached.

Eidetic are my dreams of death, sometimes graphic.
A facsimile of my life plays out to my own confusion, for once I awake I find that I still exist in this world but it no longer feels real.

I am often left with this strangeness that my reality is the dream, and my dreams are reality.

But if that is true, then I am surely dead already.

I am always angry about living,
too much suffering has made me more mad,
and from my madness
stands only more anger,
saddled with disappointment.

Life doesn't want me,
but it won't let me go.
People say they care about me, but they leave me alone.
The so called friends don't call.
While everyone else does whatever the hell they want to do,
with no regard for my feelings about it.

It's always do as I say,
never as I do.
The rules don't apply to them,
just me.

And I am left in a hot room on a sleepless night.
Tell me how is any of this alright?
How can a pill fix any of this?

When it seems like I am the only one trying to keep things calm, while
everything around me is just chaos.

Would you follow me into hell?
Forget about purgatory,
Would you give up heaven to be with me?
Feel this pain,
Burn more than the earth,
exist in these days,
Have my thoughts.

No things with wings to comfort you, nor paper books or plastic necklaces,
If you really love me,
Come down and show me.

It's easy when it's you,
It's easy when it's only a moment or two,
You never have to be the bird in a cage,
It's hardly a prison if you have the key.
Hardly suffering if you get to say when.
Now you can't claim how awful time is,
if you stand outside of it,
If you really love me, come down and show me,
Follow me into hell.

When I close my eyes,
It is so dizzying,
It is as if everything disappears,
as if nothing really exists.

Yet I am alone with my bones aching,
My skin burning,
My hunger from loneliness,
My sorrow and my hate.

It is with me,
and in my suffering;
I long for an end,
that I should disappear just like everything else does,
when I close my eyes.

I am a mirror, I show myself to myself, I am the only thing reflected,I am the only thing visible in me, it is but storm clouds of black ink.

Darkness, hate and pain, it's married to my sorrow.
Even my nightmares have nightmares, my eyes no eyes to see, and my ears only hear the twisted sick memories that is now my only reality,
my voice too weak to scream, my hands tied to a fate that I cannot escape.

And I murder myself every night in my thoughts, I am my sickness, I have become the thing I fought against

I await my death so eagerly like a dog for the newspaper, or a child for christmas, like a mother for a baby, or the trees for the rain.

I await my death so willingly,
as if I am waiting for the bus,
or in line at the grocery store,
or like I am waiting for the mail.

I sleep and I dream of my death so clearly, so clearly that I am confused when I awake again, and I see no time at all where I am not awaiting patiently, patiently for my demise,for this life of mine to cease to be, for my dreams to become reality.