Two hundred and forty seven times I'd be dead is two hundred and forty seven times I've killed myself within my head, train cars derailed seems insane just an analogy for a bullet impaled straight through my brain, leaving my body in shock with no cure is not a famous thought for sure, because of her my words did slur and there's thirty years of just a blur, I could never stand tall against the alcohol could barely walk and not trip and fall, I'd be sprawled out on the pavement, a vagrant to drunken enslavement leading to a in grave meant I was trapped in a coffin all but forgotten and left rotten six feet under the dirt, a no pride self homicide and believe I tried but with commitment never applied was denied every attempt at suicide, my soul burns with lessons learned from the twists and turns life suddenly throws in your road, and I yearn for the warmth of knowledge but this dead end path is lonely dark and cold, I hold appreciation for some animosity towards all the rest, you can say I've reached my weakest point but this is really me at my very best, stressed and hard pressed to get as much emotional baggage out of my life and off of my chest, on a quest to pass gods test and this eternal struggle, you've heard the phrase do you live under a rock, no I just live in a mud puddle, and to double the trouble I'm surrounded by rubble after my world was knocked down not so subtle, there's no safe bubble to huddle in, no shelter against the wind, there's just life that begins with a cry out in pain and all but ends just the same, from our first to our last breath we just live until life ends in death.

© Xplicit Kontent