Sometimes I wish I was dead.
No more worries to trouble my head.
It would seem so right
to pass gently in the night,
and not deal with life instead.
The Holy Host sends the Deathly Depressed
to Shoal for their sinful transgression.
Dying with their sins unconfessed
to burn until the Last Tribulation.
Sometimes it would be so easy
to Go Gentle into that Good Night.
But that would be cheesy,
and it wouldn't be right.
I told you a lie;
I don't want to die -
I want to escape from loneliness and isolation.
My confession I'll undrape,
myself I hate,
but I don't want to suffer Eternal Damnation.
I'll not be
a member of the poetic bourgeoisie
that glorifies self-eradication.
Enough is enough.
No more of that stuff.
Death provides no validation.
This literary wanna-be
still has a lot to learn
regarding the mystery
she should not spurn
about her beloved poetry.
Author notes
I'm not suicidal; I just like to bitch.
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