This is the poem in the back of my journal

Bashed up and closed down
grasping all alone
grabbing for the phone
never to be truly found...

As quietly clenched as his throat
waiting, so slowly, to float,
to fly. to glide; how ecstatic
and slightly posttraumatic

anticipated fall; a plastered parasite waiting to die
haunting as it all; and soon the day becomes night
silently morosely searching for the bathroom door
barely arriving, falling to the floor
his throat as dry as the heave
just lay back down-- he wants to leave

but, alas, dreadful dreams awaken his validity
so, perhaps, he'll lay dead in reality
but not after another fifth of jack
just to take him farther back
to when he was alive
and not craving
to die...

craving her eyes
the dances in the dark
monotonous unlies
poolside sex
oh, those exquisite eyes
and their gold flecks
even after death

a knife to the throat
a gun to the head
he knows he'll be better off dead

Poem by Flawed Claws

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