words put together

even charlie had somebody

i'm so sick of poetry.
so sick of being alone.
i'm so sick of having no hope in me
and it keeping me at home.

i died last night in my dream.
i got stabbed,
yet i didn't scream.

i said thank you.

i looked my murderer in the eyes
and whispered,
"thank you."

i've been trying to figure out what this means.

trying to figure out if i really want to leave.

in the dream,
i spoke of me.
i spoke of no one knowing
nor no one caring.
spoke of being nothing
and this awful bearing.

i spoke impulsivly;
i spoke clearly of me.
all the thoughts i tried
to ignore and not see,
they came out in a sputter
and i died-
i got to leave.

i got what i've wanted since before thirteen.

and i said thank you.

and i woke up
so sad
that it wasn't real.
i clenched the wound
and i could actually feel
the blood seeping out
with no chance to heal
and my heart let out a sigh
of relief
and joy
in finally getting to die,
but i looked around my room again
and realized i was awake and then
i sighed a different sigh
because i didn't get to die,
but live again
ten times my size
because i've experienced death
in an awkward light
and it's what i wanted beyond my mind
and this time,
it's hard to hide,
but i'm alive
and my friends are alright
and i have to experience another night
where i hope my savior is a sharpened knife
and i can finally leave this life behind.

but until then,
i'll wake up
and be alone.

so alone
that no one knows
that i even write these awful poems.

and i have to experience another night.