Gedichte
Take Out The Trash

I want to cry,

but I can't,

even when I feel like bursting.

I want to dissect my soul,

but I barely scratch it,

when cutting into my skin.

The pain is not enough

to kill my thoughts,

to kill my emotions.

And I ask myself:

Am I ready to fade away?

To stop caring, to stop wanting?

Can I throw myself away?

Would it be easier to wander aimlessly,

to take anything,

to not distinguish,

to not regret?

Or am I already near that point?