A One Way Walk.

Death had got to be easier than this, hasn't it?

This latent feeling of apathy, curdling slowly

and churning like spilt milk gone sour.

Death has got to be easier than this.

This, this vegetating sense of nothingness.

You've got no love, no hatred, no passion for the ones you loved

or the ones you hated with that distant, unbridled turbulence.

Death has just got to be easier than this.

It isn't depression because you still smile, you still laugh.

You still make those hollow, mechanical sounds

that rise up, up, up. They rise up and kiss the clouds,

those cheerless white masses that hide the nothingness above.

There isn't a heaven for people like you.

Cars, bikes, buses and lorries,

they all lurch past without so much as a second glance.

Quietly take into account each speed, judge the right moment,

calculate the impact of lorry versus car versus bus.

Raise your foot surreptitiously as if under a spell,

Hear the pounding of blood in your temples, Feel

the empty space where fear should be

clawing it's way out of your heaving ribcage.

Death must be easier than this.