I've never really thought of,
Suicide as anything but poetic.
Your face being the last thing he saw,
As he dropped the photograph and loaded his gun.

But lately I've been thinking,
That perhaps that's not the way.
I always said when I die,
It'll be because I had a say.

Now I'm thinking,
I want it to be random.
A car crash or a bullet,
And not a word from your lips.

Lately I've been thinking,
That maybe a razor is not the way.
Maybe a gunshot,
Is too violent for me.

But what could be too violent,
For a man who loves words?
When I've read your little poems,
And known that Love is War.

Nothing could be more violent,
Than the way you held my hand.
While knowing I was nothing,
I just can't understand.

So I suppose my death will be random,
But why can't I have a say?
If when you die is predetermined,
Then why die in any other way?