Suicidal State of Mind

folks, let's face it: i'm tired.

every day feels like a run-on monday, unyielding toward the worst

i work for an employer i don't particularly care for

(surprise, that's nothing new)

and if i were ever able to escape the night shift, i'm sure someone would present me with a lifetime achievement award

for working so well within the margins

never invited to the grownups table

this introverted genius toils in the shadows of life, expecting to go unnoticed

only for mistakes to be magnified 100X by the so-called leadership

who reminds me swiftly i can be easily replaced.

how can i not forget, in this right-to-work state?

where the bottom dollar trumps high performance, dedication, strong work ethic, etc?

you say it almost weekly...

and like a battered wife, i keep coming back for another black eye and blue bruises and all

for round after round of eternal abuse.

all i really want to do is sleep.

maybe that's why i place such a premium on rest - for everyone else, of course

me? i'm superman. all i need is about four hours and a can of full throttle blue demon with a pair of no-doz capsules

600 milligrams won't slow me down one bit

but i can always use more caffeine

headaches don't matter - just give me another dr. pepper and i've got the next few hours before i crash again

soda may inevitably be the death of me

or maybe the high blood pressure accrued from eating no-doz and feasting childlike:

pizza, beer, pb&j, and fast food.

maybe i'll sleep when i'm dead.

underneath the happy face is a man beaten by life

the windows to my soul are tinted by delusion

my voice, once bold and booming, reduced to a whimpering silence

never was the most attractive

whoever told me clothes make the man clearly doesn't know me

too modest to be fly, never good enough for your standard of masculinity

so? eff it.

my skin (sometimes my sin) is one i've never truly felt comfortable in, but it's mine

i'll be fine

it's been 35 years, so obviously i am finally accepting my limitations 

and fyi - i'm not talking about my black skin, negro features, etc.

i have an anxiety of being normal

working monday through friday  like most normal adults (during the day)

dealing with traffic jams and other inconsiderate drivers

navigating office politics

what if i don't make it? 

do i really belong in the graveyard, or working the graveyard?

to my detriment, i become more of a recluse than i already am?

associating with other people is akin to removing the leash from a rabid pit bull

lost am i in the shuffle

til one day my temper defeats the supposedly calm

papers fly everywhere

pens become darts

systems become compromised 

nasty four-letter expletives exchanged

and maybe 260 pounds of black power shattering someone's jaw

you're not taking me alive

so from my elastic bvd waistband i pull a revolver, point to my newly shaven head, and squeeze the trigger.

boom.

i win.

game over, life over. 

everybody's happy

no one cares because i didn't care

i didn't matter, not even to those closest to me

i bid thee adieu

farewell

sayonara

you won't have me to kick around anymore

goodbye.