I am waging a vandetta ,
of whether to leave , live or die.
life has withered in me , poor soul.
the little hero in me has died ,
but who killed it .
I've chosen suicide , but I worry ,
whether they will crown me a matyr,
or a coward.
friends have come along ,
people with hearts and hats ,
to console and give a helping hand.
My conscience keeps telling me,
Young warlock, keep moving , stage on ,
but am weak and feeble ,
the light at the tunnel end , seems so deem .
just like ciggarate embers .
but I won't give up .
I will arise and stage on
©jack716
J