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.