The Art of Suicide

I grew up with thoughts painted with rainbows and a sun, With clouds and birds singing songs of bliss and success. Gold and red silhouettes of puppets danced with fun, And laughter and smiles; symbols of perfect happiness. Those were the years of ignorance and perfection; Years of childhood dreams and of memories, Like a tapestry of the past in a mere mention Shadows dancing and singing life’s stories. But as seeds grow to towering trees, The paint of color turned gray with time. Puppets went from honest to a devilish tease And it was then I felt that there are things I miss; Life’s details and beauty I never noticed ‘Cause I was preoccupied with its default; Happiness, perfection and the temporary bliss Life’s a paradox and truth’s conviction. The fire that once ushered the dream of perfection, Burned everything to dust and mistrust And to life I felt foreign; And discovered the truth behind life’s shallow definition: In perfection, a flaw is born In every light, there is a shadow, And union in every hearts that’s torn, In every bliss, there is sorrow. Right after a storm, there is a rainbow, And sunrise in every sunset. And to myself I told: There is eternal life after death. With nature I wished to commune To mix with the travelling dust and the wind, To listen to the sad notes of the birds’ tune And to discover eternity with death; pale skinned. I closed my eyes and breathed in the last air I’d smell And with a graceful move took hold of the silvery knife I smiled and thought of a story of a man, people would tell And like a blood-thirsty tigress, the blade took away my life.