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When wracked with suff'ring even more,
     I all alone bemoan my fate,
as one who drowns in sorrows sore
     which harm, harass, and maul his state.

Aggrieved for what feels like forever,
     I trouble God with bootless cries
as I endure my manic fever
     with tearful, red, psychotic eyes.

The minute hand lands on midnight!
     I can't find clear words to express
feelings of falling a headlong height
     b'neath heaven's reach 'yond grief's excess. 

Inside, I feel the Reaper’s scythe
     as I think out my mordant plan:
razor, pills, or a kitchen knife,
     a way to end it by my hand!?

Like Sylvia Plath, if I can
     plant my head in a GE gas oven,
then it’d be painless!? (But why plan
     a death so cliche, and unproven?)

I think, too, of Virginia Woolf,
     how she drowned her life in a lake;
I, too, feel swallowed in a gulf
     of swirling misery that'd take

me to my death! Why do I feel
     forsak'n, and heavy as lead now? Am
I so hopeless? Why do I feel
     so worthless, and so so dead? How am

I to end my life (to kill myself)—
     if all loved ones were then to miss me?
“Help yourself!” I then heard. "Heal thyself!" 
    I hear aloud. As angels kiss me,

I thus then found comfort in this:
     that family and friends all care,
and if I'd died I would be missed;
     so, I war 'gainst profound despair.

And then, Hope dawns! And soon comes peace…
     And in the morn, I wake arising—
Joy breaks in, and I have new lease.
     And then my state I cease despising!

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