The bags which stare at you
from underneath these eyes
tell no lies.
They are tell-tale signs
of the nights I have survived.
Nights that are derived
from my lack of an iron will or drive,
my knack for piss poor planning,
and my inadequate foresight.
But don’t take me as contrite.
I am just happy that I’m alive.
Pleased that I have the chance
to commit suicide, one more time.
*This poem is directly inspired by the events of last week, a week in which I pulled three “all-nighters”, completing papers for my various classes. After the third paper was complete, I returned to my dorm room (having not slept in 30 hours for the third time that week), penned this poem, and passed out on the floor, in the fetal position…a mere 4 feet from the confines of my bed.