I now cling to a pillow, where once I did cling to another.
There is little comfort in this last stop-off before oblivion.
It's strange how I feel little to nothing anymore.
Sex is but a moment I can easily do without.
A drink goes down empty, as my thoughts on anything not fixated upon my demise.
There is an odd comfort in these last remaining glimmers of my final days’ existence.
I'm awaiting my sentence like some inmate trapped upon death row.
I am ready to leave, as the reader who has stuck it out for reasons unknown.
I pen their darkness and mutual misery.
They provide a means to pay the tab.
It's a victimless crime I suppose.
I know you're there and I play my role to perfection.
Who's the truly sick one in this equation?
Maybe it makes you uncomfortable and if so, imagine how the shoe is upon my foot.
This odd series is overdue for cancellation.
John Patrick Robbins, is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and Black Shamrock Magazine.
His work has been published in Impspired Magazine, Fearless Poetry Zine, Piker Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Dope Fiend Daily , Lothlorien Journal Of Poetry and It Takes All Kinds Literary Zine.
His new book is Are We Dead Yet? from Black Circle Publshing and is available on Amazon.
His work is always unfiltered.
