A woman named Emma
decided this was the day to die.
For you see, She was tired
of her writings,
of this dilemma;
the dilemma of life.

She made herself eggs;
of course with butter and toast.
The coffee had never tasted better,
Even though she still felt remorse.
She put her tongue back in her throat.

After breakfast she showered and put on a dress.
She dared to not wear make up;
this way the day to be not like the rest.
This was the day to wake up.

Emma walked out the door and left it ajared
It was pointless to lock it now.
She threw her keys into the neighbors porch.
"Good riddance," she thought,
Of this and all the clever sorts.

She walked for mile upon mile,
and it never occurred to her;
she would never see those smiles;
and for this she felt vile.
"I'm sorry."

The thing about black dye though,
that is never said aloud.
The who, what, where, and hows
matter little to a broken soul.

Emma continued towards that west coast;
this way the day to Die.
"This is an homage to Virginia Woolf," she thought.
At this point she was unable to cry;
just go on and Die.

Those journals of Kafka
and machismo of Hemingway
do nothing for her now.
Writers are the worse lovers,
they are born with no heart.

They all react much to quickly.
This is all cliche.

Under the light between heaven and
my morbid body;
it's there.
The Doctor forgot the anesthesia.
The succession of my repression;
there is no one better.
He let me feel every inch of
the blade as he tried to perform
a miracle.

Truths are told for entertainment.

He cut me deep, deep, deep...
A single tear shoots out of my left eye;
I can't ever rest.

The virus is part of me now.
Oh how I pray for the times I knew
everything and nothing;
all at once.
I miss seeing everything in black and white.
It is all to vivid now.
I can't help but tremble thinking of those
times now buried in afternoon backyards.

The Doctor can see this, and so, so much more.
He finally understands now.
the operation never stood a chance in hell.
The anesthesia would have been a waste of time,
I suppose.

I wake up and feel nothing;
this time by choice.
I throw coins into that old fountain,
bronze over gold they say.
I wake up and feel it all;
this time by choice.*

I now sob with innocence as my backdrop.
It is always black and white.
The Doctor said this might happen;
everything and nothing equal suicide.

Last I heard, death sneaked up faster than
I could run.
Those ******* thought of me as a truth.
That black, rotting tongue of yours
spit out even blacker lies.
This death, this very death,
is enough to make everything blend in with
everything.
That river runs away as if it knows;
Death is a black hole.
You know it's there, but not where.
To you, and only you, I am crushed under the
weight of these unchangeable truths;
you are gone.
My blood, Come back.
This blood, take it.
These tears can create a new river if the world
really needed it.

I'd do it too.
(If I Could)

I know why people pray now.

They do it for angels like you.

I thought they were fools.

My garden is now full;

Because of you.