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One A.M.


I'm ready to blow my fucking head

clean off of my shoulders,

and I don't care who knows it.

It's not very poetic, I know.

I am tired of this general malaise

that characterizes my every action;

my every thought and deed.

I am sick of myself, and all those

ill-advised

commitments I made so many years

ago.

But yet, I doubt there is a bullet

large enough

to wipe away my regret and guilt,


both of which are unexceptional

to anyone but myself.

I blame no one but myself for

the state I am in;

I made this Faustian bargain,

and should have

never expected any less.


A poem should put forth a problem,

and then present a solution.

Unfortunately,

I do not know the latter.

Hi J ~

That's a brutally honest poem for someone feeling ineffectual and stuck in their life and in the world. It also sounds like a poem written by someone contemplating suicide; or someone hoping that writing, about such a thought, will assuage the need to consider it as a solution.

~ Lizzytysh

'Flying Lessons', J: push it all the way.....forward!

~Makera