one day i wish
to be inert

i will write 
an eulogy
for my emotions
even though there's
nothing praiseworthy
about wretched,
sentient experiences

for all they've done
is to burn down
my paper castles
which i've built
to protect myself
and to increase
my (make-believe)
grandoise
ever so slightly 

i am like a 
gordian knot
irreversibly tangled
hopeless, dispensible 
i can only wish to
feel contented
with the fact that
the only way out
is a cut
straight through
by the sharpest
blade

for as eulogies
signify
i am
dead.