8/03/2003 Poetry

Throughout my simpleworking mind,

I wish to leave this place.

The place where my soul should reside,

Consists of empty space.

A day of full depression,

I shalt make it my last.

I wonder as I clench my fist

Will I go slow, or fast?

The shimmer of the blade's broad side,

As I pull it from its sheath.

I stare at the serrated blade,

Which will save me from my greif.

I shove the knife in to my chest,

I give a mighty wrench.

I've waited for this moment so,

Therefore I hardly flinch.

I am discovered lying there,

In a pool of my own blood.

It still squirts from the blades embrace,

A never ending flood.

Now few people come to mourn,

In the place where I now rest.

Compared to what I lived before,

Tis the home that I like best.

*Departs to the joy of minimal audience*