The edge of the balcony
Keeps beckoning my name.
The gun in my closet,
Under layers of clothes,
Has felt my hands brush along its sides -
A bit too often,
No - way too many times.
The knife that I cook with,
Seems sharper than most days.
Not sharp enough, perhaps -
Not yet, anyway.
And they have all told me,
The feeling will pass.
And yes, it really does -
More often than not.
But when I think about,
All that I've really got -
I start to imagine:
That extra step,
The pull of the trigger,
The serrated blade.
Setting me free,
Burning me down,
Dragging me away.
My angels will lose,
My demons will stay
And come out to play.
©sajeershaikh
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
The edge of the balcony
Keeps beckoning my name.
The gun in my closet,
Under layers of clothes,
Has felt my hands brush along its sides -
A bit too often,
No - way too many times.
The knife that I cook with,
Seems sharper than most days.
Not sharp enough, perhaps -
Not yet, anyway.
And they have all told me,
The feeling will pass.
And yes, it really does -
More often than not.
But when I think about,
All that I've really got -
I start to imagine:
That extra step,
The pull of the trigger,
The serrated blade.
Setting me free,
Burning me down,
Dragging me away.
My angels will lose,
My demons will stay
And come out to play.
©sajeershaikh
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