A Puddle of Suicide

There is a puddle of suicide, just waiting to begin.

The knife nestled in your fingers, threatening to stick it in.

Eyes of forlorn iniquity, words of unseen dreams.

They are slowly ripping you apart, till your heart is at its last seams.

Your tears they fall, creating the boundaries of the rain.

You cut and stab, until your helpless tongue cries out in pain.

The blood it dries, on the now empty wound.

Your body is cold on the floor, the end supposed to be coming soon.

The sky is black your thoughts are gray, as your lips try and mouth the words.

But that’s why it’s called suicide; because you make sure that your voice cannot be heard.