Somnote Diaries

Exchange by vanity, or inaction
Can't make sense of it all sometimes

Pouring poison in my soul's brook
Will i live to see much more

With all these grey hairs on my soul
The disorder has grown to great

I long to feel something more
Trapped in a prison
Of chloral hydrate.

Can i rise above?
At my funeral
I don't want any doves.