I’m so close to killing somebody—
might be myself,
or myself and somebody else.
’Cause a murder-suicide
feels like a smoother ride
than continuing to hide
these demons taking my mind.
I’m going psycho—
no typo.
You read it right.
A love poet
in the fight of his life.
Financial freedom stripped away,
fatherhood ripped away—
government checks the only thing
I barely manage to pay.
Who knew good intentions
could rot this bad?
It’s sad—
how fast hurt turns into mad.
Now all I see is red,
trying to play a hand
I was never meant to be dealt.
Every wrong move
cuts deeper
than anything I’ve ever felt.
I’m lost.
Long nights, empty roads,
Lady Death riding passenger.
We barely speak—
I don’t know what to ask of her.
So silence creeps in,
while suicidal thoughts
eat away at my liver.
But I know I’m no killer—
so I keep moving,
letting broken glass
from emptied bottles
guide me.