Suicide

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.