Posted: October 7, 2020 in depression, fiction, poems, POETRY, Random stuff--read at your own risk!
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I didn’t hate myself, like the doctors said, I hated man kind, what the world was turning into, madness without the fucking.

Fuck the system.

I was sitting up, throwing up, red liquid, from the bottom of my stomach, trying to remember where I was.

St. Elwood Hospital, ward b, according to the nurse standing near me, writing down something on a board.


More vitals.

“You tried to kill yourself Mr. Jones…”

Words coming from somewhere, maybe outside reality, where was I again?

Ward B. Second floor.



Woke up, 3 pm, threw up again, this time from my liver, my pancreas was in there, swimming in the bucket.

Who was I?

Mr. Jones….David….said so on the board in my room.

Was this a dream? A nightmare? Please let it be a nightmare, wake up man wake the fuck up!

There I was, lying on the floor, naked, my wrists were slit, blood, this was a memory, some days before, there, in my brain, screaming out, “You stupid loser!! You’d fucked up a wet dream asshole!!”

I cried.


There the day before, I and my long time love had broken up, well, she had broken up with me, loser, she hissed the word at me, threw the engagement ring I gave her back at me and stormed off.

It was a Tuesday.

Black Tuesday, some year.

Two days later, advanced forward, sitting in the Ward’s sun room watching birds sitting on the window ledge.

Fuckers were mocking me.

This was my life, sitting in a chair, looking out the window, wondering if I could fly.

Maybe someday I would try….


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