The final hours of unfinished novels

sometimes
it's scary to think about the way
time once wrote my name on its cover
and closed the unfinished novel
at the tip of a train wreck suicide

i wonder why i thought to sit down
and wait for it to return
to write words with a clarity to banish
the shadows following the past's clumsy stumbles

because it was destined to go wrong -
walking across a red string
like a circus freak
that would only collapse when someone tore it

sometimes
its scary to think how we're
surrounded by people who can't bare to live
and settle for merely surviving
like the specks of dust that are brushed away
with dismissive glances and criticism
so i've followed the ink that rolled off pens onto paper
like words rolls off my tongue into thin air

_{(help me)}

i'm stood atop isolated clifftops
at the edge of a suicide -
carving butterflies into novels
that brand flecks of blood on my skin
because sometimes its scary
and sometimes its crazy
to find myself in pieces
that were swept aside like those flecks of dust

(sometimes it scary to think
the novels always end the same way -
with one person going to sleep
and then never waking up)