the razor in my butt pocket calls to me,

singing tales of relief,

of loving, absolving caresses on my skin,

of sweet, sweet pain,

numbing my soul to the bullets flying past me

on this mental battlefield,

promising me a sheild, a blanket,

a place to rest my head and heal my dying body.

every hour of every day is a struggle;

a fight i'm no longer sure i want to win.

a fight where i'm not sure if winning would be

living or dying.

honestly, does it matter?

is there even a difference between

living dead


dying alive?

i'd say one's as bad as the other except

it's not,

because i would rather be alive than dead any day,

and if that means dying instead of living,

then so be it.

those moments when i'm living and alive

at the same time

are far and few between,

and they're not quite worht the pain.

except, in those moments, everything

is almost worth it.

almost, but not quite.

today, the only thing keeping me living is that

i'm sick.

tomorrow, it will be something else.

past that, i'm not sure

what will keep me alive.

for the time being,

it is my razor helping me

live dead.