Still, I Know Not How To Die
Upon my eyes drift specters, of deaths that I relive.
Burned upon my memories, as if carvings unto stone.
Lingering with tortured pain, my stepfather left this world.
I gave my forgiveness, as he struggled for life.
I saw my friend make a noose, later saw her poor hanging form.
A gunshot, self inflicted, to his head, on the anniversary of
his fathers untimely death. Was a young boys only answer.
Peaceful slumber, sweet release, was Grandma's way to Heaven.
With cancer eating within, Mom waited in a coma,
for death to steal her last breath, while her strong will, fought for life.
Loosing three children before birth, did make me question my beliefs.
Shot in the face, by her Dad, a young friend, I watched die.
Her flesh and blood, splattered, warm.
I could not get myself clean and the crack of the gunshot,
still rings in my ears at night.
Yet, still I know not how to die, when the urge comes to visit.
I recognize the fallacy, hidden within it's promise.
It would be done easily with the pills that are prescribed.
But I carry with me a fear. That within my own sweet death,
with my mind then uncluttered,
these images that are entrenched the deepest,
would be my Hell without even the briefest respite,
for all eternity
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