A Joy Beyond The Live or Die Delusion

 


I made you a poem made of clay.
You
said it made you numb

                                                 to
                                 all the circumstances of
                                           our birth(s),

and appreciating the hell'ographics of losing our child, our little girl,
make it all explode explode explode (even if no one else looking, or
no one else can remain intact).
                                                   It's an unrelenting pain. Informing every
move of the rest of one's life.
                                                   Like sucking hard the gasses of hell so as
to bring an end that much faster.
                                                   But the expedience of suicide when already
in hellfire/Hades  only comes
                                                    with seething dreams, until it transforms into a
real fucking reality, with no holds barred.

In all likelihood they're coming for us as wee speak.  They'll eliminate the weak
first, but who can know what that means to the current agenda.
May gods'peed take care of us all, but many of us will die that much the sooner.

~(And Some of us
will be grateful for
a quick dismissal)~.

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