Blindingly having faith in God
makes me question our naïveté.
It's all relative, right?

As I sit here, blood seeping from my obsequious flesh,
I ponder all that is real and unreal.
And that sweet, redeeming pain.

Tempting me with the promise of greater release,
the switchblade lay on the table.
The dark red results of the previous attempts flake away.

The world fades to black and grey,
greeting me like a familiar friend;
offering a vacation to a place I've been many times before.

Uncertainty is a vile temptress,
attempting to guide my life
with the teachings of the unseen creator.

Forging a path through the darkness,
I trudge onwards reluctantly;
never forgetting how to let go.

My efforts to remember a sweet life
are painstakingly futile.
I know myself only in the abyss.

Call it punishment for the nights I can't remember.
Call it whatever you'd like.
I like to think of it as redemption.

So this is the result of wishful thinking.
My life force continues to drain,
my body acting as a faucet.

What is this existence?
I rub my eyes, praying for an answer.
I never did like riddles.

I'll never be caught,
I only meant well.
Ransom notes fall from the air like snowflakes.