Slient Suicide

I'm bored, I'm just sitting here. I'm tired of this life, I'm not sure I like this face. I sit down, With a bottle of Jim Beam. Drink till I can't remember anything, Till this life is perfect. I'm not sure the illusion is working, My hand is reaching towards a knife. Why do I seem excited? Why did I feel hot, but now i'm cold? Somethings wrong, Everything was wonderfully black. Now it seems gray; almost white, Instead of darkness i see light. I look down, There's blood all over me. Mt wrists are slit, And there's a knife in my chest. Why am I still breathing? Who are the people around me? They tell me to hold on, They pull out the knife. Black, Then I wake up. I wake up ina room, So cheerful it makes me sick. A man in a white coat walks in. He tells me not to talk. He tells me I almost died, I wonder if he knows i tried? I wonder if he knows I drank too much? I wonder if he knows I slit my wrists? I want to ask if he knows i stuck the knife in my chest. I wish he knew what I did. He leaves. I want a knife and a bottle, I want a pen and paper, I want my death to be silent. In my home two weeks later, I start to drink a bottle of Jim Beam. Trying to make my pain go away, Then again I notice the knife. The beautiful twin edge butterfly, The one my brother bought me. Black and smooth, Sharp and deadly. I take the knife and plung it deep, Again blissful blackness. My death was silent. By the blade my brother bought me. I'm dead; but my soul is still here. A man walks to my body, Sits down and starts to cry. I don't understand; I thought he'd be happy. I wonder if he knows I drank too much? I wonder if he knows I stuck the knife in my chest? I wonder if he really cares? I wonder if he's glad I died? I want him to go, I want a knife and a bootle. I want a pen and paper. I'm glad my death was silent.....Suicidal thoughts and tendencies are alot of what i am and what i have. they also my interestiong dreams too. Written February 21st, 2002 © on Feb 21 2002 11:49 AM PST, Jessica Taylor   18 • 0 • 10