depress-
sion
is
a
frag-
mented
po-
em;
mis-
leading
to
some
giv-
en
up
by
many;
but this
time
it's not
art rather;
it becomes
necess-
ity
when your
poems leave
you
to your
so-
li-
tude
like a
brokenhearted
woman;
leaving you
to rot;
except when
they have
K
I
L
L
E
D
me
they will
find my
corpse of words
shin-
ing
in the
faded sun
for all
to see
like a
train-
wreck
of sorts;
but it
will be
for-
got-
ten
like uni-
verses
before us
exist-
ing
to
de-
exist;
all there is
is fate
and i guess
luck, too
so pick up
the fuck-
ing dice
and throw it
all across your
doomed
Existen-
ces.

i have devoted myself,
devoted myself,
to death.
you are living, yes,
you are living,
but you devote yourself to death.
i devote myself to you.
we are devoted to death.
but i love you, love triumphs death.
love is passion, passion is immortal.
that is, that which results from passion.
you are my life,
you are my death.
i may be slight, you may be diverted.
i don't blame you.
you are you.
you are beautiful.
you know it.
i've let you know it.
those who are better than me,
have let you know it.
so i don't blame your decision.
it is only rational.
that is, where ration is rational.
sometimes it may be senseless.
sometimes it is senseless.
sometimes it makes sense to be senseless.
sometimes it doesn't.
i don't blame you.
i don't blame anyone any bit.
i believe that is sensitive.
it's too bad i don't care.
it's too bad, too bad, yes
sensitivity to death.
so slight, yes
i only exist in words,
possibly, the only way i exist,
that is, tragedy, that is
diversion, that is,
too bad, yes,
too bad.

'oh well, too bad.'
that's what it will say
on my 'tragic' grave.