January 23, 2006

I feel so feverish...How is it that I can hurt when there's no pain?I don't feel like breathing...I don't feel like anything...The story of my life is boring.The story of my death will be better.I'm a useless puppet.Nothing I ever do is worth it.Nothing I ever write is ever good enough.But still I scribble in my little black book.I can't excert the effort required to rid the world
of my existence.Drowning would be the best, I guess.I wouldn't have to do anything.I'd just lie there.And as the water would pass over my body until it
enveloped me, I'd cry. And it'd make it all go
faster. It'd be cold water. Hot water would make
worse the feverish feeling I feel. I don't feel like
writing anymore. I don't feel like giving this poem a title.


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