Sitting on my bed,
with a knife in my hand,
thinking about it all.

Blood runs so red,
I loosen up the band,
what was my downfall?

My wasted life,
my hopeless dreams.
Run dry so quickly,
Ruins fast, it seems.

Lay my head,
down to rest.
I can't live,
past this test.

Ever so slowly,
I lift my head,
what's this sight I see?

Moving so closely,
I must be dead,
why do I feel so free?

My wasted life,
my useless plan.
I can end it all,
with my own hand.

Lay my head,
down to bed.
You can't live,
when you're dead.

07/23/2002

Author's Note: People have a morbid curiosity, the closer to the edge, the better. I've been to that point many times, so in a way, I hope these types of poems try to let others see, the grass isn't greener on the other side of THAT fence... Anyone who says suicide is a cope-out but has never seriously thought about it or further, it's like a virgin trying to describe sex. Let us poor shmucks take care of it.

Posted on 07/23/2002
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