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Poem

That word, really, what is it?
Is it a rope tied to a hook on a ceiling with me hanging on the other end?
Or is it me getting a gun, pointing it to my brains and spilling ketchup on the side wall?
Is it me gulping poison like it’s the last supper? I hear rat poison is less expensive,
Or perhaps slitting the cephalic vein on my wrist with a knife?
The jugular, oh I almost forgot, is it me ripping it open till I run out of tomato paste?
Is that what is known as suicide? 
Perhaps there’s a lot more to it than meets the eye,
It’s more of my hidden emotions that I want to let out,
But can I trust you, my friend?
What is the guarantee that no one else will hear about my insecurities?
Or will a counselor do? Maybe a psychologist.
It’s more of depression, it’s more of me feeling unwanted,
I feel like no one will even notice if I’m not here anymore,
I feel like there’s nothing worth living for anymore,
So why not disappear for good, these thoughts keep coming to me,
Almost every time I’m alone, I come up with new ways of ending my life, 
But is that really the way?
Maybe if I shared more of my worries with a friend,
Maybe if I talked to an elderly person,
Maybe if I had a chat with my next-door neighbour,
Maybe if I got out of my room and socialized with friends,
Then perhaps I’d feel loved, wanted and appreciated,
Then perhaps I’d have a reason to live,
Then perhaps I’d have someone to live for,
Then perhaps suicide would not be an option.

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