Death is my car in mid-July
The Hot Wind of the Sahara Desert
I do not want to go on living,
but to kill myself would be
such a pain in the ass
so, once more, air inhaled,
revel in the toxic fumes pumped to the ozone
I long to be a chemical machine

no emotions, just do the motions

heart beats one blood moment
at a time
the buck stops here,
no more wondering, the fine line between
Death and Hate
zigzags in my mind
each point echoing its small voice
combined to make the screeching wail
that burrows in my ears alone

the shrink tinks my links
no longer do I blink