Sometimes I dream of suicide.
An elaborate term of my demise.

If I attempt by great height,
My head is then full of fright.
"The height is far too great."
Stepped away from edge of my estate.

If I attempt to take it by knife,
I then begin to think of my wife.
Lying there, like a crazed fellow,
For the Lord knows I am no Othello.

If I try to take it through grief,
That suicide would be none too brief.
The long drawn out hectic space,
Of wading through troubles at a slower pace.

But that is the method that I choose,
For I cannot attempt the cunning noose.
If by noose, I commit the crime,
I would solve my problems fine.

But by then the deed would be done,
I would be departed, the world won.
But I will not back down like that.
I shall go on, with the word, "attack."

My life will not be solved by you,
I'm sorry for bluntness but it's true.
I will forge my own perfect path,
With all of my problems facing my back.

This is how I shall do the deed.
Go down fighting, the rest will be history.