If I constantly think of dying,
it isn’t because I hate life and the long hours it takes,
the shadows on corner streets that never leave,
and the words I have a tendancy of not speaking.
It’s because of the urge of flying, falling from a car,
rolling for a second, not even in air,
without wings or artifical beings to hold me safetly.
It’s for the pleasure of losing pressure,
The weight of the world off my chest,
because it will not leave with spoken words,
or broken bones or bought remedies from street dealers and their junkies.
So if my resolution seems insane to you,
insane to your green eyes, sometimes blue,
the way you lick you lips, the lips who stare at me a confused face,
I will nob sweetly and turn away,
the desire to speak my mind already passing,
like a speeding car down the Highway.
