the day,

where i no longer am there,

should not be far,

my dear.

the pages,

composed by my poems,

are now tainted,

by my dry words.

i wish i could,

but i can't,

keep swimming,

against the flow.

i can't,

survive pain,

handle the constant cuts,

the cold skin burns,

or a low sense of self.

i will give up,

soon enough,

i will meet the ground,

that shall caress my dead body.