Airplanes- not the flight just TSA and people,
Talking to strangers,
Waiting in line,
Pills that make me sit still,
Olives and my ex-girlfriend,
These are the things I hate.
I told myself this would be the last poem of my formulated hatred,
But I've been saying this for the past seven poems and 56 moments of crippling depression.
So fuck it.
I mean I should be depressed,
I mean I'm not sad but I feel it.
I'm a disaster!
My hair's a mess-
I barely get dressed,
My breath reeks of depression worse than 1929-
I keep repeating my own lines!
God only knows I that I wish I were fine.
I hope you know this.
Not by my hands but by the karma you thought you could sweep under the rug.
But mother forgive me for I'm always sinning-
As I took only interest in suicidal thoughts and heavy metal to fuck up my system.
Don't excuse my language,
For my head is getting messed with.
For I've been so low for so long,
Not even for just a second-
For we used to be so high,
We couldn't see the bottom.
But I've been betrayed by the game.
And I hope that when we meet again that it gets to you.
I hope for when we meet again, I'm but a ghost.
And unfulfilled compromises-
I'm the ghost of all these things.
For while you stand there screaming your heart out,
I'd silently plot my revenge till the lights out.
Whispering plans to karma hoping to be the ghost that haunts you at night.
A living nightmare,
Wondering why you can't sleep.
But this is just a fever dream as I write away your life today.
As this poem is my final last serenade to you.