Dead Without Dying

Dead Without Dying

All the time I feel my blood racing

at a high blood-pressure boil.

My muscles contract,

and I can’t get out of bed.


The nail picking has started again,

a nervous harmful habit returned.


I close my eyes as a poem starts,

but I almost can’t get up to grab the pen to start it.


And with a long day ahead I was plenty prepared for,

this was how another day started.

A rueful thought framed on a phone,

that made my body feel heavy as stone.


With this feeling,

I’d be dead without dying.

Or so I’d rather be.

To feel nothing and none of this,

I might think could be bliss.


To go back to how we were,

or sleep the day away.

Submerged underwater

without these feelings to penetrate.


I call it dead without dying.

A feeling to heed,

and perhaps now something I need.


To forget everything

and run from this life,

like a scared little child turned in fright.


I call it dead without dying,

and wonder how it’d be,

to drop all this wretchedness onto another me.


To be happy again

in this lonesome catacomb,

or sleep through it all,

and in my dreams run and roam.


Sleeping through the grief,

writing found but at a taxing relief.


Here I’d rather feel dead without dying,

’till we can fix this again.

Dead without dying,

and sleeping ’till then.



Dying –

A place there in the moment, numb and living,

Without the bad feelings there and unforgiving.



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