Quite often I sit in my study,
thinking about my past that has been.
Not a thing I have control over,
just my life before,
and its permeating stink.
And I wonder. I wonder why I suffer this trauma;
this thing that’s my life before.

And these thoughts are forever present,
bugging me, taunting me,
pushing me to the brink.
Contemplating the uncontemplatable
and I wonder why I think,
the thoughts I ought not consider,
the thoughts of what should have been.
I try so hard to reconcile my history
with the things as they is.
And occasionally, I fail,
this warranted duty unto myself,
but it’s the way things are, it is,
— the way life is as it is.

And when they’re foremost in my thoughts,
still pushing me to the brink.
I look at the bottle before me,
after my mind has turned to drink.
And savour every moment,
when my mind has been comfortably numbed.
It’s a release from my torment
and although the mantra has been drummed

— into me

— that I’m killing myself,

the path is already laid.
There’s nothing I can do to get off it,
there’s nothing I can pay,
for my history and my life before,
things started going my way.

Am I forever having to follow this deep and cataclysmic rift;
the borderline between the now and my past that is as it is?

For now I know the answer,
as it is in my gift,
to follow through with the only option I have,
and that is,

— killing myself to live.