Doomsday Memory

The last time I tried to die

I snuck the revolver

From under my mother's bed

And rested the barrel

Against my head

As if to support its weight

In case my arm got weak

I didn't have my own gun

Because I thought if

I owned one

Maybe I'd do something crazy

For instance, paint the wall

With my brains

One bullet through my temple

In which I hadn't

Prayed in years

Since the voice of God

Felt less real than the ones

Between my ears

This was all their idea

I have a selfish disease

My brain hates my guts

So much it wants

My heart to die

Just to deprive them

Of blood

I actually felt angry

When the weapon misfired

Sometimes I still do

Yes, I know I am loved

Of course, I know some

Would miss me

That's where the disease

Comes in

Because what you know

Gets painted over

Until all that's left is

What you feel

And all you are allowed to

Feel is needless heartache

The word 'day' becomes

Synonymous with 'battle'

'Death' sounds more

Like 'sleep'

The last time I tried to die

I wasn't weak or cowardly

I was tricked

Fooled into thinking

I was up for extinction

Because my thinker itself

Has been infected with a

Psychological doom virus

I failed to end

It is a failure I hope

Never to amend

At least not today