I want to die a fake death—
when romance and cynicism
confuse my head beyond recognition.
I want to shoot myself
in my head— with an empty gun,
to know what it's like to be dead
(and by my seat above) the other side
of devastation, depravity, and exalting love
without the gravity of push and shove.
My insides sweep me away;
off carried by the feelings of the day.
It's all too much—
so bitter sweet for me.
Think I'll hang myself
from this here tree.
When started information:
residing on Milnor Ave. in Syracuse, NY
sometime from 1982 though more like 1984
into 1989
aged 15 into 22
Writings By Erick Heins 