Life hammered hard with brute incorrigible force, skilled in all art of torture and agony,
Idolizing an idea I fought hard to relinquish.
The second door history obliterated from scripture, suicide.
Death is priceless and life is not without a contender, the anxious fiddling of my delusioned mind slowly recounting options of futility. Life on the losing end, with a plethora of reasons to die, but I'm fond of living, a fair habit I inherited, not particularly the choicest.
Life adorns it's heights and depths with a wretched line of equality, matter matters less and time is but a slow laughing clock, an odoured virtue, very well exploited by my progenitors.
Emptiness, the bald headed uncle of grief, suicides mother, nothing to live for, living for nothing.
I laugh at my description, a descent joke for a suicidal, a glamorous isolation.
Well then, a toss of the coin to uncover fates presumptuous bosom... Ah! Death it is, the obscene fate that rapes all humanity.
From here I clearly behold the price tag of a kilo of the once thought priceless life, a stunning reality, we all owe God a death for the life we borrowed.
Peace is needed, an art of exquisite synchrony of life and death, the angels above and the demons underneath my feet.
Some label it the weaks philosophy, ironically it is birthed from a strong resolve. All must die someday and one by one life pushes us off the ledge, sometimes in twos, all victims of lifes promiscuous imagination, but not us the suicidal who chose to jump.
I fall asleep...
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