Lately I've been wondering about my death,
about how I'd like for the music to cease,
the lights to go off,
the colors to fade,
about how I'd like for the world to end.
I'd like for my demise to be poetic
most like everything and anything I do.
Although I know death by one's own hand
is deeply frowned upon, I don't care.
If I should die I'd like to pull the cord
with these very hands that brought misery and joy.
If I should jump,
I'd liked for these feet to walk me to the edge of the ledge.
If I should close my eyes and abandon my dreams to
the void of darkness,
I'd like to be the one who mutters, “Goodnight.”
For this is my life and to think that anyone else
has a say in what I judge wrong from right
is simply and utterly absurd.
Lately, I find myself entranced by the beaconing
of dark lighthouses.
By the tempest in the sea and the clashing of night
as it unfurls like sensuous smoke upon the shores
of my turbulent conscious.
If I should die,
I'd like to go with a spark and a thunder
as I melt into the world of limbo.
One more rebellious act to let anyone who dare object
that this life is mine and mine alone,
and I decide when I should end.