I have no hope.
None to save me;
spare my lingering soul--
if there be one, that is--
or reason to thrive.
Why survive if consisting of
constant turmoil--constant regurgitation
of trouble and trouble, false hope, then trouble?
It's all a gamble, after all, they say--
why not force my hand, string myself up,
adapt to the environment, leap of faith,
and end it all while all is young?
One minute laughing, the next minute seizing;
I smile when required, I weep when required;
I stand and work and speak when required,
but now it's expected, because as a number
I will die of my own accord.
Eighteen years old, she said, just came
from her funeral. He was dressed in black.
You should have seen his poor, young face.
I've been to the funeral. I've seen the face.
I don't want to hear about this, no no no.
I want to escape going back to that moment.
But the moment goes on--consistent with time.
I cannot read or watch or think without
a mention of a suicide.
Why not? it says. So many already
have conjured up courage to taste the solution.
Why not?--Indeed. Statistically,
if I have no hope, well then I'm better off
ending it while I'm still a young face.
Please note that this is in a sarcastic tone, not a cry for help, and a reflection on how I think society views suicide and is becoming more and more willing to accept it, especially among teenagers.
Just something to think about.