Every night the fan off
The ceiling shivers out in
Anticipation of my death
By hanging.
Sometimes it asks me if
It could withstand my weight.
And the little bit of empathy
That's left within me tries
To eat less and workout
To shed calories for its sake.
All the while the sleeping pills
Wait for me from within
The drawer for the streak of
My insomnia to get to my head-
Things sink and rise.
They repeat till I reach
An edge. But the sad warrior
In me is not brave.
Seems like he's addicted to
The comforts of his breath.
And the train tracks and
The bus-tyres wait in vain.
While the box cutter on my table
Out of frustration wants to
Voluntarily retire.