A Suicide

It's not a simple thing.
At least not at the surface.
It's not a pretty thing.
At least not for those with pretty eyes.


I've done it, you've done it.
Not in the literal sense,
Of course not.
But we do it everyday.
Whether in compromise, or discipline,
Whether in love, or prostitution.
We die a little bit because of us,
but we tend not to notice.
It's only a little death,
only a little.

Someday maybe,
We'll think of it as fashionable,
to hang ourselves from the ceiling fan.
Or maybe it's already passé,
as we move on to shallower things.


Everyone's thought of suicide,
In a moment of self-pity,
Or dramatic self-glorification,
In the thirst for petty attention.
Or simply in the need,
for the ultimate escape.
Like a book that never ends,
Or a sleep, you won't wake from.


We shun suicide,
As a coward's cause unto death.
Maybe we should hold knives to our hearts,
And see our courage then.


From the pastor, to the merchant,
From the soldier, to the politician,
They've all considered it,
In a passing thought in the face of things,
Maybe to be brushed off like a bad dream,
Or to be clung onto, like a lover.


Maybe one day, we'll look for it's cause,
And skip the route to easy effect,
Maybe one day, we'll paint a more vivid picture,
So no one would die, voluntarily.
And so we might smile a little longer in the sun.


-Durenerin