Cheap Poisons

 

I look at myself in the mirror,
unsure if the world is bearing me
or if I am the one
bearing myself.


I wonder how cleanly a knife
could slit my throat,
how a sharp razor might trace my nerves,
leaving me bleeding,
a quiet masterpiece of despair.
Hemlock belongs to another age;
I must settle for these cheap poisons.
Combing my hair, I laugh at my own numbskull hope
to expect warmth from a mortal, material world.
To love, to hold affection
what Shakespeare once staged as tragedy
is now everyday life in this generation.



Am I really done with the world
that once taught me how to live, pray, love?
I cannot say.
My conscience has been numb too long.
Perhaps the world itself is a ward,
a sprawling asylum,
and my hallucinations were not dopamine at all.
Even my pen leans close and whispers:
Do you really want to live with this burden?
I pause.
Well, buddy
I guess you’ll have to wait
and see.