But death

When I think about this I’m never truly sure.
I have extended my motives,
And done nothing.

I have fallen in love with a poison apple.
I’m bathed in my papers where I breathe my
Thoughts, and burn my secrets.

But death is the only dialect I dream to speak.
It screams,
Like an addiction it’s both crazy and lustful.

I might have, in life,
Dreamed this intruder,
Ingested this intruder,
Given it it’s life and meaning.

Just like this, scheming and scary,
Steamier than hells caves,
I have thought to myself, burning at the earlobes

Could dying be the answer to unwed problems,
Burned souls,
And scorched egos?

It is there that “it” waits,
Burning under my tongue,
Begging to be spoken.

But death is the only digestible substance,
Unearthed by all means,
Declared in a thousand languages.

Here in this, I am bound,
broken, and bridged.
Torn between tolerance and torment.

But death is the only audible sound.
It stands unmasked, unbroken,
Undressed, and screams, beckoning me.

It is here, among the paper,
Black and burned,
I hate everything, but death.