The Cycle That Never Changes Poem by Michael Demidenko

have I passed the point of no return?
like my foot sleeping on the gas about to go off a bridge?
has the razor finally split open the veins in my wrists like two rivers of dark red, blood, running away from each other?
have I reached the end of the tunnel, the light about to beam me up to heaven?
am I already in my grave, being buried alive?
cold dirt being thrown all over my body like confetti, my mouth full of it.
the disgusting taste makes me want to hurl.
worms entering in and out of my brain, trying to decipher my thoughts.
seeds in my soul waiting to blossom.
resurrecting me back into this materialistic world
where only the magazines, cars, and clothes the only things that define you.
it is like branding yourself with a label, letting everyone know what you are.
the world that never understood me always thought I was insane.
but now it’s back to square one, back to zero.
the expressions of my friends and family tell it all.
long faces, bloodshot eyes, makeup everywhere tears run down their faces trying to beat each other to the finish line.
no matter their age, no matter how they felt about me or about the things I did.
it is a sad sight nonetheless, a pathetic sight to see, all these phony emotions coming out.
a graveyard full of body’s, some of them famous, some of them “your average Joes”
but no matter what they did in their lives, they are all in the same place now
6 feet deep.
a life wasted or a life lived to the fullest.
i was labeled as a genius, a master of my own thoughts.
my poems the only things I ever connected with.
your greatest masterpiece, only seen by yourself.
who needs a front page article telling you how magnificent your writings were?
when you know deep down inside you did your best.
but the biggest thing that bugs me is that,
people always coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your body on sundays, wasting their time.
the same old ritual every Sunday until eventually they die,
empty promises always said, and soon forgotten.
then the process repeats over and over again, like a daily routine never to be broken.
but what good can flowers accomplish, littered all over your grave like trash.
soon rotting away never to be seen again.
who wants flowers when you’re dead?
not me.