I am asked why I sleep so much.

If I play my cards right,

I will not dream

And it will feel like death by trial basis.

My search for truth

Brought me to rock bottom.

I kissed the barrel of my father’s shotgun

And prayed for it to end.

Living with the unknown is killing me,

Unleashing a pungent cynicism.

The glass isn’t half empty

Or half full—

It just doesn’t exist.

My attitude stinks,

I’ve been told,

Reeking of Black Death

So they buried me with spring’s most fragrant blossoms.