I must write a poem
symphony of synonyms
hurricane of hyperboles
mobocracy of metaphors

floodgates in my fingers
obstruct my insanity.
No monsoon of carefully selected
adjectives, nouns, verbs
storming blank parchment
running ink stores dry.

Instead I simply gawk
at the word-worthy world.
Write poems on the seams of my skin
and under my eyelids.

Engrave the secrets of my crux
in the stem of my brain.

Cut out my own tongue.
Useless in formation of my phrases,
they are inconceivable
to modern man.

You'll never see my madness untill you examine my insides
cut me open, unravel the mystery in my cold blood,
Find me dead and read my lips.
they will be stuck in a
morbid *smile

I dare not tell anyone
about my suicidal thoughts
that are going through my
head,
They are there every day and night,
I think of them often when I am
alone and everyone I have loved is dead,
I don't confine to my psychiatrist,
He will start worrying to much,
He will try to put me into a hospital,
just makes me a lot worse.

I have to ask myself what the consequences there might be,
If I try suicide once again, will it be heaven or hell for me?

I know that Our Lord is rich is mercy and justice and forgiveness
I am taught, but surely he can see that I am over wrought.

Do I simply wait for my turn when I called up home into Heaven,
where all the ones I have loved and died are waiting to meet me.

Suicidal Thoughts, they run through my head,  but I know they are just
that, I would never try it once again because I am much braver than that.