Line by line,
Stroke by stroke,
It is high time I wrote this note.

This arrangement of letters
to words on a page
To explain why from this world I disengage.

To explain how I felt when you held my hand
And how it was from the moment we ran.
But we started too late and now here I am
Writing this note with the very same hand.

Truth be told, I hope no one ever sees
The note on which I have diseased
with my poisonous thoughts.
Perhaps I should leave.

But what kind of friend leaves without a note?
No piece of paper on which they have wrote
A note excusing why this is what they chose?

But what does it matter if I even try,
At any given moment, we all live or die.
And if that makes you sad, go ahead. Go on, cry.
A note with an excuse, is a note with a lie.