Prose & Poetry

 
Do Not Weep, Maiden, for Death Is Kind

What I want to do most is sleep.  That is how I know I want to die, for death is eternal sleep.  There is  no waking from it.  Every morning, I'm disappointed to have woken.  What I really want is to die, peacefully and painlessly, in my sleep.
Perhaps no one believes the person who threatens suicide will do it .  So many people have bitched and moaned about life and suicide, but most of them won't do it.
I was recently told, during a mental health appointment, that alcohol is a depressant.  I knew that already.  My response?  Life, existence, is a depressant, and it is much more powerful than alcohol.
Now that I've accepted death, I feel a certain peace: a peace that passeth all understanding.
Except for animals, I don't care anymore.  I've heard that (I don't care anymore.) in at least 2 songs (Phil Collins and Wilco).
As I wrote in my memoir, Memoir of an American Loser (under my pen name-Zach Murphy), suicide, for me, is like a blanket that sits on a high shelf in a closet.  It's ready to be employed whenever I'm sure the world is too cold to bear.
And if I kill myself, don't weep for me.  Weep for yourself, and the rest of the living (with the obvious exception of Isis members), because there is no pain and suffering in death: only in life.
I hope my writing survives: my 2 books, one about people's horrible treatment of animals (Veganman) and the other a humorous, bittersweet memoir about the pain of life (Memoir of an American Loser), this blog, and, to a lesser degree, what I've posted on Facebook and Twitter.  There's a lot of other stuff too, but it either isn't finished, or there's no place for it at this time.

Life Sucks: a poem

Life sucks
Life ducks?
Life trucks?
Life tucks?
Life bucks?
Life f*cks?
Life clucks?
Life pucks?
Life mucks?
Life luck's?
Life lux?
No, life sucks

Closer:Poetry & Prose

 
The closer I get to death, the better.
The closer I get to suicide, the better.
The closer I get to the bottom, the better.
The closer I get to the end, the better.
For that is where the pain will end.
Please allow me to update you on my marvelous career.  Things were going just fine working as a janitor at a bookstore.  Then I walked into the men's room, to clean it, and it hit me: the smell.  It was a bad smell.  I checked the toilets.  Sure enough, one of them was filled with poop soup.  It was so f*cking gross.  I began to gag.  Tears streamed down my face.  What could I do?  I flushed it: hoping it wouldn't overflow.  It didn't, but the noxious mess didn't go down.  I kept flushing it, as I kept gagging with tears rolling down my unremarkable face.  What if I have to plunge it?!  What if some of it splashed onto me as I was doing that?  Fortunately, I made some progress with my flushes.  Finally, after several flushes, it was gone.  But, not surprisingly, the toilet had been annihilated with poop stains.  Lucky me, it was my job to clean it, which led to more gagging and tears.
That wonderful assignment ended.  I was merely filling in for a man that cleans bathrooms 7 days a week.  I'd rather be homeless or dead.  My job developer got me another cleaning job.  I wasn't at all excited about it.  First of all, it was quite a long drive away.  I accepted it anyway.  He took me to my first night there.  I soon learned it would be my responsibility to clean 4 buildings for a company that manufactures bricks or something like that.  The place was filthy.  Floors needed to be mopped, carpets needed to be vacuumed, and toilets needed to be cleaned.  I would spend at least 2 and a half hours working there that night, but I knew pretty early on that I didn't want that shitty job.  On the way back, my job developer and I didn't talk much at all.  I wanted to wait until we were in the parking lot of my apartment building.  Just before getting out of his jeep, I said, "I'm sorry, but I don't want this job."  He said, "Yeah, I figured that."
I'd rather be homeless or dead than clean other people's shit out of toilets.