Suicide

Rusted iron bowl, Grayed and blackened, One day I picked that up from barn, It was commodious enough, For about three or little more pounds, With it I went inside, And slumped on a chair beside, My sick tired and lonesome frame, Simply got framed, A mirror glared at me, Within it ran the reels of my real, My failures,rejections,betrayals, Defeats and sadness, I was the lone viewer, Everybody had deserted, With each passing frame, My depression got aflame, Cold depression, Was soon burning me full, I was in this crevice for years, And unable to pull, Today it was unbearable, I made an effort to pick up the cutlass, And with no effort, I dumped it in my stomach cavity, I made a large cut, And began pulling out my guts, They refused, I thought they were refuse, I cut them loose, I felt no pain, Because much severe ones I had already gained, My cavity was empty, On table top lay heap of my guts, My palms were soiled and bloody, Slowly I began to collect the heap, And put them in iron bowl, I wrote on bowl side a bloody fingered SUICIDE, And last uttered that I do not have enough guts, Before I slumped dead.