When is suicide romanic?
Tragic?
Appalling?
These questions bear their wait
In the back of my spinning mind
Here I squeeze the grip of a butcher’s knife,
Not in the moonlight, but the ever-graying sky

When no ears can hear the reverberating echo
From your cries in the lies where you lost yourself so deeply
When no one is willing to think of you
For fear of ruining their day,
Then is it perfectly unselfish to at upon unendurable pain

In the blush of the night
And the rolling, roaring peal of thunder
The dark clouds express the torment
Far better than my pathetic cries for condolence
Yes, I’m cherishing my thoughtful misery
As if it were unalike any other
But I know it will end so quickly
If I’d just jump the roof, ****** the dagger

With the unbelievable, deafening, so blinding silence
I know that nothing can lance the quiet
With my towel in hand
My last plunge in soon to come
In the endless depths
Of sorrow’s irrevocable ocean