A gun sits on table, daring me to dance.
Putting myself in a trance, asking me to take chance, but I can't.
I can't bring myself to pull the trigger, shouting to the clouds, is there anything up there bigger than me, waving their majestic covers over my face, stopping me from making a huge mistake?
So, I take the idea of what comes next, and morph it into, is this really a life or death situation, if I'm happy on the outcome? Should i really be worried about who's out there, and who really cares, if I myself don't want to be talking up space and breathing air?
Please, I shout out again to the ever present black cloud, hovering above me. If there is a God, I need a sign. Someone, please show me!
This state of mind has left me blinded by what I think life is supposed to be. Society creating rules and regulations based on the accusations that I haven't settled down like the rest of my class. That I haven't found a house with the greenest of grass in the backyard, kids aren't screaming and tearing things apart, because there is no family for me. Thats not how I want my life to be.
I want to sit on a bench in Paris, at one of those coffee shops, taking up nobodys time but my own, writing about the people around me, while I sit and ponder alone.
I want to get on a bus in England, taking pictures of the reds and blues around me, Big Ben in the back scene, smiling amongst the dirty streets, while I think to myself, is this what life is supposed to be?
Taking a deep breath, I struggle with what little sanity I have left, and I pick up that gun, winking at me from the glass table.
And I pray, if there is a God that's able, will He be capable of stopping me if I end my life?
I don't wanna die, I whisper to the empty room. The pistol tip sits against my chin, as the tears start to flow, that I've tried to keep in. But all is a miss, when the trigger is pulled, and soft click reaches my ears. The truth hides in my tears as they flow in heavy rivers from my eyes. I guess I wasn't meant to die. I was decieved by my own anxiety and sin. I get it. I tried. Okay, God. You win.
Share This Poem
This Poems Story
Sometimes our best art, can come from the worst pain. This is that art.