It's not really suicide, just
Killing yourself -- one quick motion
And a lifetime of pain is
Washed away with the blood stains
That spattered on the wall behind you.
It isn't suicide, per say.
Just a sweet release from
The bonds that hold you captive.
Satisfaction would be wonderful,
And the blissful nothingness even better,
But what's stopping you?
Nobody understands this numbness,
The absence of feeling that rules
You're days, numbered as they are.
The future is far-fetched,
And your past, just a black hole
Of memories that you'd rather forget.
The days drag on and you watch
As the obvious signs of a downward spiral
Are etched into your skin, one by one....
Carved, branded, beautiful.
You don't believe in Heaven,
And you think of Hell even less.
But the calm of the impending blackness,
Bending over you and whispering
Comforting words,
Is growing harder to resist.
You just want to sleep, and your life
Is like some sort of wicked insomnia,
Never resting, and relief is
Always just out of your reach.
Once you've made your decision,
Don't hesitate -- your heart aches with longing,
And Death is singing his beautiful song.
There's nothing here for you.
I can see your face now,
So close to the soaring flight of freedom
That you can practically taste it.
The tears are minor details
And the sound of your pathetic sobbing,
Just the anthem of a lifetime of hurt.
But when you pull the trigger, just remember
That no matter what they say....
It's not really suicide.