I’m thinking of dying once again
not with a pistol but with my pen.
It’s easier to die on the page
than it is to die with my 12 gauge.
And so I sit alone and write
about my death on Friday night.
I was all alone hanging at my place
just sitting & staring at my ugly face.
A face I hate looking back at me
reflecting back my Insanity.
An Insanity that ruined my life
hurt my kids and stole my wife.
So I sat there trying not to cry
when all I wanted was to die.
I sat and wondered if there’s a God
why I’d become my own firing squad.
There was no answer that I received
from a God in who I once believed.
My hope was gone and all I could see
was life getting worse not better for me.
And so I put it to my head
pulled the trigger now I’m dead.
And as I finish with this poem
I no longer feel so alone.
©ronvdm777
Oct 2019
©ronvdm777
R