The End

Im nothing but a homeless person living in an imaginary home.
Occupied by the thoughts of death, the temptation to end this life.
But who am I to end life ?

I am not a God.

I don’t have the right to end life
I do not own this body, this meat suit, these bones do not belong to me.
They are God’s creation.
His piece of art.
So why damage this work of art?
Why damage something thats already damaged ?
Even if this work of art seems to think that its full of flaws and worth nothing at all.
Even if this work of art has no rock to hide under anymore, no corner to collect the little pieces of crushed bones and glue them back together.

But how can you glue something back together when you have no bones left in your hands ?
How can you fight these thoughts of death with no bones, no soul, and no spirit ?

Giving up seems to be the only peace this work of art can find.
Giving up always seems so easy and right around the corner waiting.
And fighting seems so hard requiring so many tools.
Tools I no longer have.

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Restoration

I write you in every poem, every song, and every dream i have.
I write you in the empty spaces in my life.

I draw your fingers between the spaces of mine.
And i wrap mine around yours.
Grasping it to feel the life seeping back through these hollow bones of mine.
I draw the curves of your body around the curves of mine.
And i hold you tight to feel you in my blood stream, returning warmth inside this cold corpse of mine.

I picture your eyes in front of mine.
And i stare into those brown eyes to feel the colors seep back into these sunken eyes of mine.
I picture your lips, an inch from mine.
And i breathe you in to feel the soul return under this beat up skin of mine.