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
