Silent Plea

Forty Eight

Sometimes I don't know what I'm saying, none of me makes sense to anything or anyone.
I talk too much or too little.
I feel too much or none at all.
I crave death or reject it.
It's a conundrum, is it not?
Life feels so out of reach when I'm like this, I don't see nor understand the point of living and I think too much of what it's like to be dead.
To simply not exist anymore just be a pile of bones with my flesh having melted off.
It's morbid and dark I know but I think part of me has always been morbid even when I didn't know it myself.
I wonder what it's like to be weightless to just not be here anymore - float around the world and not have any responsibilities.
Sometimes I care too much but sometimes I don't care enough or I can't find it in me to care.
I don't think I make sense to anyone not even myself but then again, maybe it's ok for me not to make any sense.