The deed is done,
a puddle of red,
or rather
an ocean
of red
stains the floor.
Now to wait
till they
lock me away
in a mental institute,
the body was that of my son.
But they don't get it,
no one does.
This world is far
too cold
and
harsh
for life.
I brought him
into this world,
the guilt overpowered me
for all of his 13 years of life.
To see him ostracized
from everyone
because of the way he looks
and acts
was possibly the most painful thing
I have ever witnessed,
He tried so hard
to join in.
I didn't ever want
to end his life,
never intended to,
but he came home today
still an outcast.
Nothing we tried in the past had worked,
no amount
of discussions
with the principle,
or social workers,
did anything
but **** us over again.
So I stand here,
the ocean of blood before me
with a knife stuck in his chest (about where he heart is)
a noose around my neck, a chair underneath me.
This world is far too cold
and harsh, to survive in.