Every breath I take is a labour of love,
for this body, I must sustain.
It seems happy, in this world.
But as for me, I would like to go.
I've stopped inventing purpose, reasons,
goals and dreams. I just don't have the ingredients,
anymore. I tried the usual exits, but they all
led me back to where I am, to my body's relief.
So, now, I paint black doors on walls;
doors that just won't open. I've got to get out.
I stretched it as far as it will go.
As a last resort, I tried to look for God who,
they say, is in my heart. But all I found was
a long obituary about his timely demise.
'He was old and cruel and had to go.',
was all the eulogy said.
They tell me what I need is hope;
I just don't argue anymore.
I really want to go.
I thought maybe a new love
might ease the pain, but
then again, I've tried that before.
One of these days, one of these doors
might just open, if the black paint
ever has mercy on my soul.
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