Son to father, knife to blade,
An aching heart screaming for aid.
Amber coals writhing with ire,
The whites of his eyes, blazing afire.  
He dropped to his knees,
Voice begging, “Please!”
“It’s for your own good.”
Up tall he stood,
Hand raised, dignified.  
A small child, victimized.

Years later,
That boy, a crumpled paper.
Age makes no difference to a broken soul,
With no self-worth, an empty hole.
Pain still lingers;
Sharp razor in trembling fingers.
A vein opened, flowing magma let loose,
Rope tied like a hangman’s noose.

A troubled mind’s only solution,
An unendurable pain, ended by execution.