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By Michael Bartlett

An imminent death is something that seems so tempting, so inviting, so often. I refuse the offer, though. Every time. Often I am unsure why. The people I still call friends, either hate or distrust me, or I them. My love for those I think I love is not love. It is nothing more than dependence. The things I wish to try to create, I do not create. I only destroy them slowly. All I attempt is wasted. All I create, I destroy. All I love, I kill. All I trust, I lose.

I still exist because I know at least a few of you must feel the same as me.

Skeptical. Remorseful
Full of love. Full of hate.
Full of drugs and full of creation.
Of hope. Of anger.
Disenchanted with every political party,
though still unsure of how to take power.
Against the war on drugs, but also against the meth dealer you went to school with.
If you are like me, you want to create as much as you want to destroy.
One option is more readily available than the other.
Both seem to yield the same result.
If you feel the same as me, and I’m sure at least some of you do,
You probably aren’t reading this.

Still, I live. Still, I create. Still, I trust. And still I love.

Why? I know not.
Perhaps because I believe that I’m not alone.
That I am not the only one.
I exist today because I believe at least a few of you feel the same as I do.

Skeptical. Remorseful. Full of love. Full of hate.