Drag me into the woods with an axe and a shovel,
where I would be forced to kill or kill myself.
Burying myself would be impossible,
and living knowing I have killed is impossible.
No life, no love, just hunger for something other than what is available.
Would I survive such circumstances?
But to different voices survival is all relative.
Living happy or living at all.
Waiting for an answer, or even a question.
Just to respond, or just to hear other than you.
Your blood running thick, but feeling thin.
You can’t know, don’t know, and won’t, know.
What do I have?