This suicide taste funny,
with its imprint eternally
stamped
in my head.
It has the taste of an end,
my end,
and end filled with stars.

It taste like a badly cut movie,
with missing scenes.
The best ones thrown away.
Those were your best traits.
Action.

It breathes in the night sky.
I swear it's real.

This suicide mails those stamp-less letters,
postmarked to your younger self.
Where did I fail me?
It must have been those times I wasn't brave enough,
or it wasn't enough.
The pendulum of restlessness.

It must have been after the divorce I never understood.
That was and end to an endless war.
Good men died that day.

Those years of ripe maturity,
with tiny fragments still stuck to my heart.
behold the man you
see today.

It was all make believe, or clever guessing,
or a game of tag with no friends,
which makes no sense.
I could not be brave then too.

This suicide is now my confidant.  
It's been with me all these years.
Every Winter: here.
Every Autumn: Here.
Every Spring: here.
Every summer: here.
It's been with me through
the oceans I've cared so little about.
Through the scenes of beauty I could not
understand.
Through everything that could not fit inside my head.
Suicide, you *******, I'm through.
this death isn't funny anymore.

*I've changed my mind.

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.