I attempted to kill myself yesterday.
I failed, or else I couldn't write this.
Tried to right a wrong--my existence.
Tried to stem the pain in my life.
Wanted to be a success at something,
anything to give my life meaning.
Suicide as a definition of life--what irony!
What can I say, having tried and failed?
Thoughts come, meaningless, pitiful.
Felt the cold hand of Death reaching for my own;
then suddenly withdraw, leaving me hanging,
denying me the peace that eludes me.
The numbness turned to awareness and life, such at it is, crept back into it's earthly vessel.
My failure made more evident, pungent
by the bitterness of the vibrancy of my wakefulness.
Could try again, but a sense of futility now fills me.
Might as well wait 'til I'm called.
Perhaps I'll be able to answer the next time.
Hold on tighter to the Reaper's scythe.
Success or failure--must wait and see.
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