Little booklet of poems

Death

The sadness contorts the soul
The demons closing in
It's always got to be hard,
Too hard to get up off my knees.
My inventory is full,
Now I must learn how to use each item.
The rope
The gun
The pills
The poison
The drugs
The razor blade
The body of water beside me
And finally
The knife.
Taking my life could end in a variety of ways,
But which will be most effective?
The rope:
I could hang myself
But it could be slow and painful.
The gun:
I could shoot myself
It would be loud and quick.
No suffering.
The pills:
I could overdose
I could go quietly, but probably painfully.
The poison:
I could put poison in my food or drink
It wouldn't end well.
The drugs:
I could overdose in heroin
It may or may not be quiet and quick.
The razor blade:
I could watch my blood flow
I could write my letter on the wall
All with my precious blood...
For everyone to see.
The water next to me:
I could drown myself
A slow, painful death.
And finally
The knife.
I could stab myself in the heart.
Would it be painful?
So many choices, you see?
Any way I tried I would succeed.
Who knows
I could live through it.
Suicide
Death
It comes any way.
No one can escape it.
We may as well cope
And maybe try to live.
My heart goes to those,
Those like me.
Those who live with demons
Demons perched on their shoulders
Waiting for you to fall
Waiting for you to fail.
Death will come,
But some sooner than others.