Unliving

 
In numb reflective moments
I search for signs that I am
not already dead

My existence is a dull
repetitive pattern that
many might consider Hell
or perhaps Purgatory at best

There is not a single spark
of happiness in my life
There is no hope or
expectation for a better future

There is just this shuffling
routine left to force me
to ponder the extent to which
I might still actually live

The pain, sorrow and anger
are reasons enough to
convince me I still number
among the living
for what creator would
continue to burden the dead
with only negative emotions?