When compared to the average life span
Of the average human, on one side,
Dogs come up short of us; tall ones, even shorter.
And trees, especially tall ones, live longer. On the average.
How many times, in an average day,
Do I come between such?

Young and hot.
Old and cold.
Life is a thermometer.

They carried us
Through gestation,
Or took us in
Without hesitation.
Our coming
Was a celebration,
Mothers are our affirmation.
They deliver.

When we're quiet
From travails,
She makes time
For school-yard tales.
The warmth of sunshine
Shyly pales
To her prevailing arms.

She feared for us
Til eyes dried out;
Stayed home alone
When we left her house,
Waiting by the door.
A balm and living cure.

When Moms do well
All can tell
The Madonna-like connection.
No need to forgive,
We'll always grieve,
They've loved us
Since conception.

I'm ******* with Robert Frost
And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost.
I ain't happy with Aristotle,
And especially John, the weird Apostle.
Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats,
Blake, Byron or Yeats;
Each and every one you see,
(if you're ready for some truth)
Took their themes from me.

Don't look aghast,
Don't tsk and titter,
Their thievery's left me
Mean and bitter.

Just because they said it first,
Doesn't mean I find it just.
It doesn't give them ownership
Of my themes and authorship.
I write of Roads, Good and Evil,
God and Satan, love and leaving.
I know I'm internally bleating,
But I can't abide this metric beating.

Although they're merely dust and bones,
They don't have the right to own
All the great lines I have sown:
The best laid plans of mice and men.
(I said that before Robbie Burns).

Let me make this poeticaly clear;
If I was there, or he were here,
I'd sue the *** of Will Shakespeare.

A House of Cards
Should only have
Two Jokers...
Right?

Pop bottles. Boxes of them.
The old man brought them home.
He collected them on the construction site, between lifts.
Sometimes it would be days between lifts,
So he filled time collecting bottles.
Hires, Fanta, Tab, Fresca, 7 Up, Mountain Dew,
Canada Dry...
Emptied by men, like him, from all over.
What conversations did he have with them
When he picked up the empties.
Did he indulge? He'd have liked Vernors.
Pop bottles were as good as gold.
Large bottles, a nickel: Small, two cents.
He kept us busy, weeding, straightening nails, digging, mixing cement, building fences, painting them, and the house;
Root cellars, garages, additions;
In fair, wet, or hot conditions.
Winter had it's own cuffs.

We'd cash in the bottles at Walker Bros.
Every Sunday he'd leave for weeks,
Up North, to places like Kapuskasing and Hearst.
He must've been thinking about us up there,
Collecting our bottles,
In fair, wet, or hot conditions.

I saw him wince,
I saw no smile,
I saw the hurt
In his eyes.
I heard the lines
Of jokes misspoken
In the guise of humor;
And thriving like malignant tumors.
Finger pointing at shortcomings,
Of race, religion, creed,
Or a Newfie, Pole, a Jew;
A priest, rabbi or preacher,
A doctor, lawyer, teacher;
Gay or straight, make no mistake,
They're fodder when one utters
A slight not misconstrued.
We should be adamant,
We should make a fuss.
If we fail;
If we're unjust;
The joke reflects on us.
.

The twins came today.
They took their first breaths
On this first day of May.
Today, and all days,
I swear and I pray,
To love them always,
Come what may.

If you were a book,
I'd read you again.

If you were a ride,
I'd wait in line.

If you were my dream,
I'd never awaken.

If you were a star,
I'd never look down.

If you were a flower,
I'd never look up.

If you were mine,
I don't know what I'd do;
But I'd do it.

No, no, no, Dirtbreath. I say we call the big one an elephant,
and the small one a mouse.
                                             Eve

I'm sure red's a better color for me.
                                              M. Monroe

She has a face that could sink a thousand ships.
                                              Ulysses

N­ow that Hawking's dead, I'm the smartest
guy on Earth.
                                             D. Trump

You're too Jung to understand the Superego.
                                              S. Freud

No. You keep it. I have enough.
                                              B. Graham

Are you sure that's the Delaware?
                                              G. Washington

E=Mc Donalds.
                                              A. Einstein

Go pound salt.
                                              Gandhi

Wha­t day is it?
                                               Roosevelt

T­hat's one small.... oops!
                                               N. Armstrong

I don't remember any of my dreams.
                                               M.L. King, Jr.

Hey, John, I can see your house from up here.
                                                Jesus

Beaches, fields, streets, hills. Did I leave anything out?
                                                W. Churchill

Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course I wrote 'em all.
                                                 R. Starr

It's just too big to wrap your brain around.
                                                 S. Hawking

Don't lose your head. This won't change a thing.
                                                  Robespierre

Before I was fined, I walked the line.
                                                   J. Cash

Could you lengthen the title and shorten the book?
                                                  Tolstoy'­s editor

What if we put the workers on conveyor belts?
                                                   H. Ford

I have a splitting headache... hmmm, interesting.
                                                   ­Oppenheimer

I've never liked orange juice.
                                                    N. Brown

Really? You want to blame me?
                                                    ******

He stings like a butterfly.
                                                     S. Liston

#timesup #metoo
                                                     A. Boleyn

Mr. Watson. Come here. Spare me a dime?
                                                      Bell­

Roebuck said he'd be back in ten minutes.
                                                      R­.W. Sears

To be or to do be do be do.
                                                      Shakes­peare/Sinatra

When you call me Whitey, I get cotton pickin *******.
                                                      E. Whitney

We're the team to beat!
                                                      Toro­nto Maple Leafs

Don't call me a Mother!
                                                      Mo­ther Theresa

Is that a Cuban*?
                                                      M. Lewinsky

Four you already know,
But I can't, I won't,
Put them in writing... allegedly.
The Fifth is my favorite.
Adrift on the Bering Strait,
On an ice flow,
Followed by habitat strained
Polar Bears.
(We'll give him an oar)
Upon landing on the opposite shore,
To be met
By a voracious, ferocious,
And *******,
Russian bear.

She clung to me like willow shade,
With one step I'm in the sun;
If my day got hot and hazy,
I knew where to run.

She dropped a force field round me,
From ground up to my crown;
I burrowed once beneath her,
But I was digging down.

I want to cross the street.
I want to ride a bike.
I want to stay til morning,
To keep with her all night.

I listen for the breathing;
A sign from her eyes;
I want her lips to move and lie,
Only babies cry.

She lay with no reply.
My willow waned and died;

I keep a private Scrapbook
You won't see on my shelf;
Stuffed with trivia from my life,
Known to no one but myself.

It's filled with words and actions,
Lies, cheats and thefts;
Nothing really serious,
But enough that I won't share.

Deeds I'm not proud of,
Words uttered to hurt;
Clippings from a checkered past
Sealed safely in my book.

There's some who'd like to read it,
Expose me for what it's worth;
They should proceed with caution,
They have their own Scrapbook.

My friend's Father,
Who's just that,
Has a Papa Francis.
And her entire congregated family
Won't acknowledge her
Very existence.
How can she communicate.
There's a crack in the crucifix,
And it's splitting, running up the wood,
Past the cruciform,
To the Head.

The Sansui turntable still works well.
Like memories, round and round,
Needling me. And the more I play them,
The more they itch.
I know the dark side of the moon,
And the way the sun shines.
The dances, whirlwind moves,
That have settled now.
Inside the sleeve are notes and our words.
I will not let the dust jackets do their job.
I set Abbey Road gently on the pad,
Place the needle softly, and hear the familiar scratch.
Standing back, like watching a parade,
I listen.
Here comes the sun on a cloudy day.

Who's comb-over looks like *****?
Donald's comb-over looks like *****.
Who's scared shiteless on election night?
Donald's scared shitless on election night.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump

Who's got a tie that's long and red?
The Don has a tie that's long and red?
Who pays hookers to *** on beds?
The Don pays hookers to *** on beds.
*** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got hands tiny and slight?
The Don has hands tiny and slight.
Who spews lies out day and night?
The Don spews lies out day and night.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who's got a vocab small and trite?
The Don has a vocab small and trite.
Who whines Fake News out of spite?
The Don whines Fake News out of spite.
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

Who likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD?
The Don likes tweeting SAD SAD SAD.
Who likes a spanking when he's bad?
The Don likes a spanking when he's bad.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

How many minions leave today?
So many so far went their way.
Comey, Priebus, Flynn and Bannon,
Tillerson, Spicer, Hope and Ryan.
Leave today. Gone their way.
Bad, bad, bad, SAD SAD SAD,
Small and trite. Out of spite.
Day and night. Tiny and slight.
**** on beds. Long and red.
Election night. Looks like *****.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald.
Must be Donald, Donald Trump.

I keep well abreast of the news.
It's hard not to. Can't quite turn it off.
I'm not sure I would.
It's everywhere.
So many sources bring it to me.
I bear up.
I write about it... constantly.
It's painfully intriguing.
I rubber neck like a bobble head
At all our goings on.
And I'm selfish.
I want things to work out
Without my money.
I'll give away all my prayers.
I've been offered money for my vote.
Keep your cash.
I don't trust the YMCA. or the Credit Union.
Too many pick-pockets.
They'd sell children at half price for a gallon.
The homeless already have the prime real estate
When the money runs out.
But it's not about money.
And by then, it won't matter.

April showers,
And freezing temps
Have festooned our trees
With crystal chimes.
Breezes move the limbs
In a clear symphony of spring.
I've never been endeared
To chimes.

I fact checked
Whether God's
Dead or Alive.
In fact...

Tantalize, tantalize,
Divert my eyes,
Say nothing, walk away,
Don't look back with running salt.
That's my lot in life.
My health and safety act.
Not a peripheral look,
Not a squint, no mirrors.
No looking back.
No regrets.
Forward.

Be careful spewing in idiotic arguments.
Idiots has two I's.

I used to call her every night,
The black spiral cord stretched far and tight;
My changing voice kept to a whisper,
Against the hinges of the hallway door.

I used to write her every day
When she lived sixty miles away;
Sent thoughts and verses that I wrote,
Sealed my love in a white envelope.

We came together.
We grew together.
Then grew apart.

What would we do
If we got back?
What could we say.
How would we act.
I've Romanticized on that.
The memory of us.

While lying on my couch,
The sun breaks through,
Moving across my closed eyes;
If I open them,
Could you be standing in the room,
Then sitting beside me,
Hand on my head and hair,
Asking, am I okay.

It wouldn't stay this way.

The memory of us
Is sweeter in the thought.

Today you live not far from me,
But a greater distance than it used to be,
When we were sixty miles apart.

I have a true story. Unbelievable, but true.
You have one too.
This too is true.
It's so unbelievable I can't tell you,
As you cannot tell me.
I think mine more far-fetched,
And you think the same of yours.
You wouldn't believe me,
I won't believe yours,
Even though yours is probably more believable.

It's a secret, but not a secret,
Because I want to but won't tell it...
Because who'd believe it.
They'd sooner believe in voodoo... not true.
Why tell a truth none believe.
It has a dangerous intrinsic result.
What personal good is found
In crosses, nooses and needles.
There's truth there, but refutable truth.
Unbelievable truth.
There's the sticking point.

I'm scared.
I'm silent.

It helps me understand broken hearts and crushed spirits.
The lonely, hungry lost stories of the unfathomable.
Believe me. Don't believe me.
The result's the same.

Legends, myths, folklore tales grow
Because the whole truth went untold,
And mixed with a partial lie,
Becomes our reality.

So, I'm reticent to share mine.
I'm open to hearing yours,
If it's what you say it is.
But I doubt it.

So you like to drink in the bars,
Or swill moonshine from old pickle jars;
You could be far worse off than you are,
You know you coulda been a dork.

A dork's a mammalian who digs in his nose,
His *** passes gas as he goes;
He has greasy hair and picks at his wart,
He plays with his  *****, burbs and snorts.
So if you like to spit, pick and hork,
You're on your way to be a dork.

Or would you rather drink in the bars,
And swill moonshine from old pickle jars;
You could be far worse off than you are,
You know you coulda been a nerd.

Nerds are mammalians in Bermuda shorts,
Sandals with knee-high socks;
He's awkward and clumsy and out of step,
If we turn East, the nerd turns West.
If you don't want treatment like a ****,
Then stop acting like a nerd.

Or would you rather drink in the bars,
Swilling moonshine from old pickle jars;
You could be far worse off than you are,
You don't wanna be a goof.

A goof's a mammalian kiddie diddler,
A rat, a punk, a toothless skinner;
He's in jail to keep us safe,
But in protective custody for his own sake.
So if you don't heed the law and you're a ****,
You'll do well when you're a goof.

Some solid guys aren't behind bars,
We play ukes, guitars and cards;
We're on stools in our local bars,
Seeing ourselves as Avatars,
While getting pickled in our jars.

Is there room in the tomb
Of our sun and our moon.
All creation stands waiting.

It's filled with transgressions,
Our ungoldly sharp sins,
A shroud unstitched by Seraphim,
With heavenly hosts on the pin.

It's darker outside than the light within.
And the temperatures rising,
There'll be no denying,
There's room in the tomb,
The sun has risen,
The curtains are torn,
All sins were forgiven
That first Easter Morn.

Isn't it easy to write during these times,
And difficult to write on these times,
Without ripping off figurative comparisons.

I want to use wasteland
But I'd be the one compared,
And that won't work. That's not my intent.
Besides, Townsend and T.S. worked it.

There are the platinum choices
Like Satan, Lucifer, or Legionnaire.
But Milton has his scent all over these,
And the Bible invented them.

Those times.
These times.

Apocalypse, or any version thereof,
Would surely bring Brando to mind,
And Kurtz's heart of darkness.

There are inspiring descriptors like,
Cataclysm, devastation and destruction.
Well-represented in cinema
Since Birth of a Nation.
Now there's irony.

As much as Holocaust would be perfect to plagiarize,
I, nor anyone else, should ever attempt,
(And it would be a vain glory attempt at best)
To use this singular word
In an analogy for anything, ever again.
Ever!
Unless absolutely necessary.
Unless someone we know gets stupid.
Then more stupid.
Then stupider.
Then most stupid.
And finally,
Not with a whimper, but a bang.
I falter.
Not exactly plagiarism is it?
Shouldn't be repeated either.

Now is the sixty-third Springtime
Of my life,
And the Summer of my contentedness
Tees up.
A fore-gone conclusion.

You keep me at eye level,
Examining for interpretations,
Think me either shady or too colorful;
That my perspective may be skewered.
You reach out to straighten me,
But recoil, gloveless.
Consider the Feng Shui
Of your living room.
Peer closer,
There's a face
Like a worrisome specter,
Like the picture.

There's a Route 22 near you.
A licorice asphalt road,
Twisting as opposing currents of time,
With anticipation and apprehension,
From home, to unknowns,
From comfort to expectations.
A rural ribbon of signage,
And milestones.

I traveled mine yesterday,
In an overdue Spring,
From Melrose to Bright's Grove.
I writhe and bend with its winding,
Former times arise like heat waves;
Mirage puddles flood my head,
Always just out of reach.

I recalled hitchhiking through Warwick,
As I backtrack,
And almost stop
For one today on the curve
Where they sell the garden gnomes.
I once looked wryly at them
When waiting across the road.

Sprawling upright over the northern landscape,
Towards the Co-ops of Arkona,
And the beer store in Thedford,
Wind farms thrive like techno giants,
In a mutant Utopian world.

****** Mary's red sign no longer hangs
Outside the white house in Lobo,
Where she could bring you in touch
With your dead.
Poplar Hill's trees no longer snow in the summer,
The water wheels are seized, barns are exposed.
The lofts collapsed.

I had to stop near a culvert, to listen to the sound of run-off,
The melt reflecting the transition under the sun,
Converging at Black Creek, Pulse Creek, or Cow Creek,
Carrying forward to the St. Clair River and Lake Huron,
Then onward and back.

Weathered iron fences enclose pioneer graves;
Settlers who cleared the dense Lambton forests,
And made the first ruts along my way,
With wagonfuls of backache.
I know well how you fared on our Route.

They called him, Paddy,
Who brought the old world here,
With curses, **** and beer.

We called him Towser,
A cur-mixed bowser;
A dog with a bone.
Both lived at home.

Francie really is my name.
Uncle Francie has the same;
Uncle Francie is to blame.

Francis is my legal name;
But I was never called the same.
Francie is the one that stuck,
Don't talk to me about Irish luck.

But when I turned twenty-two,
I introduced myself as
Fran,
Sounding more like a man.
I got tired of re-repeating,
Francie, you know, rhymes with Nancy.
I was exhausted of always hearing,
Could you spell that for me Dearie?

When I drove a limosine,
Clients called me Francois.
When I faltered, when I drank,
I told the cops
My name was Frank.

I believe I'm the same
No matter what I'm called by name.
And even though
My ego's fraying,
I'm pleased to turn
If you call saying,
It's good to see you well, Francie.

I never had a choice
With what I love;
Like tasting ice-cream,
Sunny days,
A child's expectant face
At a parade;
Puppies and kittens are adored;
Closing sales at favorite stores.
They ignite a spark I can't extinquish,
A blazing warmth that's out of control,

We were marched into the room,
Told to disrobe, to leave our belongings behind.
The room was locked.
Hard to concentrate;
Harder to look straight
In our anxious states.
We lined up, entered en masse,
Into the showers.
We were Southsiders;
Italians, Poles, Irish and mixed,
Nervous whispers, shielding tensions,
Standing by the poolside.
The whistle blew,
And thirty boys dove
In the comfort of the pool.

Eight of us sat at the table that night,
Rehashing the news,
Retelling the plots,
Familiar voices singing old songs;
Getting it right.

Between hors d'oeuvres and bottles,
One wife remarked,
She wished her husband
To be better read.
To us who knew her,
She said better bred.
A point best kept
Within her head,
Silent and unsaid.

He turned red,
The goodly man and dad,
A lad who could build
From ethereal prints in his head.

I could feel the company's dread.
He pushed his chair out,
Stood sturdy and stable,
Looked at the company
Sitting full round his table:

I can't read or write too good,
I'd be a Stooge in Hollywood,
Don't believe she said it in spite,
For forty years she's been my wife.
She knows I'll never change my ways,
She says things just to hear her voice.

Then sat with his elbows back on the table.

I enjoy the snow,
Looking from the window.

I applaud the speakers,
Listening to my radio.

I get excited watching sports,
Calling plays from my armchair.

I feel the strain of athletes
At the Olympic trials,
Cheering from the side.

I don't cast my vote by proxy.
I am present, and I am toxic.

When the plank is up,
Icicles form like the sword of Damocles
Above my door.
Breath is whisked away by prisms
Hanging between limbs, flailing.
My parka rests in the closet;
The shovel looks incongruous
Leaning against the shed.
High, I giggle in the peopled park,
Waiting for descent.

There is talk of another Arctic Vortex,
Combined with the Texas jet stream,
A canopy of cold is raised,
Crueler in the bright sunshine of March.
But we see shadows, elongating and shrinking,
And my toes reach tentatively
For the softening ground.
But soon,
I'm high again,
Heading towards the bright, yellow sun.

Every body,
Micro, macro or ***** Whale,
Whether healthy and hale,
Or weak and failing,
Will die trying to live,
Will bend, mend and maintain,
Suffer and celebrate to sustain
The body.
I am a body.
Not any body, but one of everybody.
I am bending,
I can mend,
I will sustain.
You could say,
I am some body.

Let it go like a red balloon
Released to celebrate;
Follow 'til it dissipates
Into the vacant blue.

Unhand the kite string,
The struggle with elements subsides.
Let it go as if it died.

You know you tried,
Some things broken aren't worth fixing;
Admit to yourself you don't like it,
That one day never comes.
Do not expect a certain result,
Life happens as it was meant to unfold.
Just let it go, like gossip, like fear;
Dependency is detrimental.

Tear down the museum of victim mentality.
Stop comparing,
Stop people pleasing.
Let it go.

I will not write on lost love,
But do rim shots on a drum.
Blow a flourish at your exit,
Sounding the fury you left.
I hope you hear how well I'm doing.
I can roast baby back ribs,
Add softener,
Keep a clean kitchen sink.
I think I could birth now,
And do just about anything a woman can.
I am male. A man.
I need remind myself
After public emasculation
For the unbridled innateness
Which is sometimes us.
We are heading towards equality,
Finally, and,
When all is said and done,
Keep the ribs.

Sometimes my life splits me in two,
In daytime I never dream of you;
But then I turn my nightlight off,
My real world brings me back to you;
The moon is sun,
The sun is you.

I can guess your names,
Cleverly chosen to reflect
This year's popularity.
Names beginning with XYZ.
Some silly ones, by all accounts,
But I'm silly to think my opinion counts.
Though that's of no matter for what you face;
For we've left this place in a sorry state.
Our lame excuse is,
We didn't fare well from our benefactors.
The ethnic mix was already a mess;
And rightly demands fair redress;
Broken promises to those who dreamed,
The indigenous and the migrant streams;
Those in chains, though innocent,
The fairer ***, and I'm not sexist,
Has been under the heel of the strong,
Yes, far more fair,
And they've been wronged.
Unique communities of men and women,
Have cracked the doors, blown their horns
And tumbled the walls of garrisons
Through film, print, paint and clay.
Their inclusiveness gives me hope,
That some near not far future day,
We'll all be gathered in one parade.

I've scratched the surface of our inheritence,
And in fifty years of managing the place,
We've left problems til too late;
Some we've worked on,
Some escaped.
We've pointed fingers far too long,
The work we started's never done,
You too will have to pass it on
To the unborn of the human race.

I have this friend
          (it's really me)
Who has this girlfriend
          (who's really she)
Who has this quirk
          (really several)
Which she'd deny
          (which is another)
She's not anti-gay,
Sees right past color, creed and ethnicity;
Sees women for being women,
Men for men,
And any combination thereof,
And vice versa.
No, she can see right past bigotry,
Is blind to prejudice,
But has an innate drive that goes straight for wardrobe.
From the gowns of celebs,
To the color of Alex Trebek's tie.
A sartorist, that's what she is.
          
          I heard that.
          And I am not.

          (contrary too)

I've read it as vis major.
It was written in the Senate,
And dealt with all detractors,
And the Judes and Cristos,
And the gods know whom else.

He said it leaving Elba,
Cas fortuit, was the figure head
Cutting through the white water waves,
Churning all miscreants beneath his rising currents.

The columns rose from Ettersberg Hill
In black reeks and was read in cries,
Casus fortuitous.

These are forces we will reckon with,
And as the predecessors went,
So will today's,
Dragged like Faustus,
Unrepentant and ******
For the cold blue smoke
From the shark grey barrels.

I don't have paint or brush,
Or mallet to shape a rock;
I don't weld or chisel,
Or mold clay into crocks.
I don't wear an apron
To create art-food forms.
I can't meander on a stage
To emote the audience.
I can't focus a camera lens,
I don't have what it demands.
I don't use any tools
To do what artists can;
Except for
Words, just words,
These flow without end
To color ice and snow,
To carve mountain tops
Down to pebbles in a stream,
Shading dales, glens, woods and mead.
Equipped, I am, with all I need
To create an art that you can feel
As well as any gallery piece,
To arouse emotions in the reader,
To bring to life as a carver
Wields his knives like an author.

Billy's gone to meet his ******;
The odds aren't in his favor.
The Omniscient will ask the questions:
Where's the money, Billy.
The pennies from the multitudes
That built your mansions,
Clothed and fed you,
Lavished yours in comfort and light,
While my children around the world
Died from hunger, disease and war.
Open the ledgers, Billy.
This is your final accounting.

Wrap those arms around yourself,
It's a boost for mental health.
Embrace all feelings when alone,
Then hug until you reach your bones.
Squeeze until it's hard to breathe,
Slowly release and know relief.

Now wrap your brain around yourself;
Unbind the belt cinching sense,
The straight jacket 'round your head;
Buckled and strapped,
It fits like skin;
Too much penance for all our sins.
Unravel the sticking, needling voice,
Whispering...

I have no choice.

It's not because you're lacking wealth,
Family, friends or stable health,
But one's perception of oneself.

Don't wrap your neck inside a noose,
Or shoot yourself with an overdose;
Don't splay yourself on a subway track...

I wonder would I feel that.

Leave Daddy's gun locked in its holster;
Hold high your chin while treading water;
Stand still on bridge, cliff or ledge,
You won't hit bottom til you're dead.