TRIGGER WARNING: this poem addresses suicide. It is an artistic way of relating to those who struggle, nothing more.

It is my mind that is not honest

If you asked, I didn’t want this

I am fighting with my conscious

So sorely do I need respite

All the things that they have read

Would any matter if I’m dead?

How many words still sit unsaid?

I think about the wrongs I write

I try to pen them, every word

I read them once, and twice, and third

If they aren’t perfect, well, I’ve learned

They may not get it, but they might

So much polish do they need

So many edits, yes, indeed

I cannot bear to let you read

The raw and real, my one true plight

No fortune, fame, or currency

Can fill the holes inside of me

There will always, always be

A darkness in my light

So I forge on, straight ahead

To do the things I swore, and said

No care for what they say or read

I’m alone, this is my fight

One day I’ll end it, yes, I think

And I will toast to you, this drink

I’ll dry this quill, empty this ink

And say “Dear world, goodnight”

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