Suddenly, I had to catch my breath, I arose from my pillow trembling and stunned from a nightmare. My heart thumping incessantly against my chest. Sweat drops were streaming from my face. I gazed at the fan whirring above me and then to the flayed walls that surrounded me. I turned to the light that begged to come in from a drawn shade, half-drunk alcoholic bottles, and an uncapped night time sleep aid on my counter. It was oh so familiar: the perpetual nightmares, the same ceiling fan whirring sluggishly above me, the alcohol I used to drown my sorrows in and the pills. I was weary of the depressing ambience. I couldn’t wake up to this another night. Under my breath, while using a finger to wipe the crust from the corner of my eye I muttered "how will I ever get out of this labyrinth?"

              I sauntered outside my room to the living room, grabbed a diet coke from the fridge, swiped a Malborne cigarrete and a lighter from the counter, and stepped out the door. I perched on the stairway leading to the mahogany door and lit a cigarette. As I drew the nicotine in, I started to ponder on the quickest and most painless way to take my life. after much contemplation and weighing of options, I came to a decision. I hurled the cigerette on the ground, stepped on it till I was certain I put it out, twisted the door ****, and slammed the door behind me. I unbuckled my belt as I walked into my room, climbed atop my bed, fastened the belt around my neck and hung it to that same sluggish fan. Who knew it will be the death of me? I took my last deep breath, then took a step forward without hesitation. There was a sudden grasp around my neck, and a shriek came bursting out from the tightness of my throat. I found myself six inches above the ground begging for air, waving my arms in an awkward motion as though that will somehow save me. My soul was slipping away from its body. I could feel it. I could feel a separation, and even though I had always been skeptic about whether we have souls or not, this last few minutes cleared every doubt. It was departing, that unfathomable thing within us that we sometimes describe as light or as the Hindus call it "I" was departing from its home. Everywhere slowly turned dark, even though my eyes were bulging outside its sockets. And Just before I embarked on a journey atop the coach of death, a muffled scream brought air back to my lungs and sent electric shocks through my body.

            Suddenly, there was another urge to catch my breath. I arose from an unfamiliar bed with no fan whirring above me. The walls were cream white, no half-drunk alcoholic bottles laying on their sides. But there were pills in a transparent bottle. Myriads of them stacked neatly in a cabinet. It took me a while to realize I was laying on a hospital bed. It also took me a while to discern a hand clutching firmly to mine. I turned my head slowly to my sisters cried out eyes fixed on me.

What if I were to take my life?
To silence the cry of a heart that has been cleft asunder
And put to an end my nights of aimless wander
In search of solace I never attain.
If I were to take my life, it’ll be beneath the stormy rain
On the gloomiest evening.
The stars will be shrouded by dark clouds
And the ground quaking from the rumbling of thunder
As the relentless gust of wind whooshing by dangles the sturdy, tall trees
And fluttering its withered leaves.
An evening were every soul pusillanimously sought refuge under their roof
Frequently peeping through their curtain with a bulging eyeball
Because they feared to venture the cold, vacant street.
If I were to take my life, have I succumbed to deceit?
To the whisper of Lucifer that incessantly tells me “this is my solace”.
Indeed, I want to rest
But how restful will be my death?

What if I were to take my life?
And I’m laid in my coffin like an etherized patient by unfamiliar hands
My mother’s tears falling upon my lifeless body
And in the ***** of my brethren will be an overwhelming urge to cry but fury will not let them.
What awaits me after?
An abyss for taking a life I cannot create?
Peace? Because God is willing to empathize for I have been tormented enough in the earth he has kept me in.

My loneliness is all that I have ever known
And amidst all I called friends I felt alone
Amidst all my anguish my eyes never brought forth a tear
But I hoped to cry, because my brain couldn't bear.
What if I were to take my life?

Who would've thought a disturbed poets worst fear will be death?
All his poems will make your ***** brim with sadness
Each stanza hints suicide
Every line is a cry for help
And you think the only escape from his misery is to cease breathing
But little do you know he fears to take that last breath.
He fears the unknown
The blankness and darkness that is assumed when we think about that last breath
He fears that the God he disbelieved in will punish him for eternity by hurling him into the depths of the blazing fire
He fears that the misery he'll face in the after life will be incomparable to that he faced on earths soil.

He also fears to leave the world still feeling alone and unloved
He fears to leave with that heart of his still aching and broken
And without kissing the lips of the woman he hoped to Amend it.

Suffice to say I'm afraid of death.

I thought my sleep was my solitude
My only escape from a dungeon ye may call earth
But this bed my body lies on becomes the flaming palm of Lucifer's Hand at night, he does whatsoever he wills.
I am a helpless prey to the night
As the sky turns gloomy so does this soul of mine.
Nights have become a scream for help
An open door for melancholy and loneliness to find its way into my abode.

will my endeavor be fruitless ?
did I neglect slumber,
live in solitary for days,  
numb my sorrow with alcohol
trap myself within the same walls I get lonely in
being only distracted by the scribbling of this pen on a paper
just to leave thou with discontentment ?
a poets worst nightmare;
(an underappreciated piece)

I am writing a poem for one who has words in the palm of her hands
like God has the earth
I am writing to one whom words bow down to her feet
like prophets to God while on his throne he seats.
Is my piece profound enough to make thy beautiful brown eyes water
or make your skin prickle with goosebumps ?
will my words speak to you in ways no one ever has that my piece becomes your drug when you want to flee from all that chastises you ?
I can only hope the first stanza grasps your attention
and you get lost in poetic bliss
and the last leaves you breathless
to the point you crave my kiss
to restore air to your dying lungs.
But that's probably just wishful thinking
your least liked piece is probably more breathtaking than my most cherished  
you leave your readers satiated by your words and rhythm that they now worship you.
they yearn to ease their angst by reading what you vent.
how intimidating it is to write a poem to a poet
great anxiety as they fixate their eyes on the paper
you hope, you just hope they don't roll their eyes in disdain at the last full stop.