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Looking up at the Moon,
I say my farewell.
To my knees on the floor,
I fell.
I reached out around me
To find an instrument proper.
There's nothing to use,
'Cept a knife and a chopper.
I slowly grab the former
And hold it before me,
And remember to write,
What the survivors shall see
After I carry this out,
To a tolerable degree.
So I depart from the knife,
And instead choose the pen,
And place it on paper,
And only then,
Do I realize
That no one will read,
Or care to for that matter.
So I leave behind writing,
And begin to get sadder.
My trembling hands
Grasp the knife.
It shines in the moonlight,
In an ill strife,
I must not think long,
For fear I reverse.
So I plunge it deep,
Like I used to rehearse.
Unimaginable pain
Echoing in my stomach.
I'm not dead!
I begin to panic.
Then I go again!
Deeper this round.
This whole time
Not a single sound.
Once again I recoil
In pain from my strike.
Soaked in blood,
My hands and the like.
I decide to go higher,
And aim for my heart.
I strike and I miss!
Why can't I part!
My breath escapes me,
But will drives my motion.
I slit my throat,
In one final notion.
Somehow I live,
And the knife slips free.
Soon it will be over,
I smile with glee.
The lady of the moon
Sheds more and more light.
I see her smiling,
She is full tonight.
Spinning now,
Violently so.
Yet my body is still,
And my thoughts are slow.
I slip away from Hell,
Into a better one.
Although the move would be faster
If I only had a gun.
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Note to Reader
I am not suicidal although this poem was written at a time when I very much was. Please do not send me messages of worry or sympathy, it was a long time ago. Thank you.
