The room is dimly lit, for this meeting of poets and the like, especially invited for a special presentation on the theme of “Of Death and Precious Suicide.” The crowd in attendance is made up, not surprisingly, of Goths and people who wear black makeup and walk around gloomy and dreary all the time, with the view that everyone and everything in life is against them. These are the people who glorify self mortification and the stewing of self pity in the dark, like vomit spat out and regurgitated over and over again. There are a number of people there, with a small stage in the forefront of the room, on which there is a microphone on its stand, and a particularly bright yellow light that shines like a spotlight down on the speaker, giving him, or her, to be politically correct, particular prominence in a room with people that make a funeral look cheerful. And then suddenly, as the speaker, in this case, a young man in black and more piercings than Pierce of Zits fame, goes through a particularly depressing declamation of a poem that, unsurprisingly once again, glorifies the two subjects of the theme for the night, a flash of black light…yes, I said black light, which is different from darkness which is merely the absence of light, and a puff of smoke, and a girl, dressed also in black, which serves only to accentuate her particularly pale skin, appears. The startled young man steps back as she smiles sweetly at him, turning to the audience, and then she steps forward towards the microphone, into the spot recently vacated by said young man. She taps it, and then clears her throat, before speaking…
Of Death and precious suicide, what can I say, that it’s sweet, cold as Midian night?
What can one say of this flaunted demise, that it’s wrong, can it ever be right?
Are the whispers that come, with that sibilant hiss, like the waves upon Acheron’s beach?
Like a faint minuetto of subliminal reach, does it lull you to beckoning heights?
When your veins pulse so slow as they spill out, blood flows, how could it possibly feel?
Like you’re dancing on ice, or you’ve paid a great price, like a wound that can never be healed?
Oh, trust me, I know, how it feels like to die, and it’s nothing like what has been said.
Oh, the anguish, the fear, the fatigue with no cure, oh it’s something that has to be shared.
Let me tell you, right now, what I did, why and how, let me give you a taste of the truth.
So step back, take a bow, let me now take the prow, so you’ll never partake of that fruit.
First of all, what is death, nothing more than the debt, that you pay for the living of life.
But the way that you die, be it down from on high, or the fault of a pointed edged knife,
That is what truly counts, when He’s making His rounds, when you’re meeting the Maker of Man.
So sit back, take a pen, and write down what you can, and let me take the mic off your hands.
Now what did I do, and yes, I did do, it was me that brought end to my life.
All the thoughts that accrue, now I’m paying my due, for I plotted to end my own life.
I took pills, did they work? No, I tell you, it sucked, when your stomach is pumped…by a pump.
So I tried something else, off I went, hanged myself, got an ache, nothing more than a bump.
Thus at last I did try, that big final great lie, yes I tried the slitting of wrists.
And it hurt, oh it hurt, and involved lots of blood, but it worked, and I felt Death’s cold mists.
Now to why, why did I, you may ask, did I try, try to bring my own miserable end?
More than try, I did cry, as my body did die, brought to end by my own one, two, hands.
I was tired of life, of the pain that is rife, of the torture my soul did endure.
How I longed for a cure, for the sadness endured, pain in form that is cold and so pure.
I was scared of myself, of the thoughts in my head, and the misery my life always brought.
I put action to thought, all the sorrow I fought, for an end to the works that I wrought.
Was it worth it, you ask, when I was, brought to task, for the actions of fear that I masked?
So trust me you must, now that you have just asked, was it worth it? I say, yes it was.
In the sense that I can come to you here and say, “Just don’t die, though living does suck,
Even though when you’re breathing, and you’re feeling like fuck, and your life, feeling like you’re in muck.
For life is too precious, yes it’s corny, I know, but it’s true though you feel otherwise,
Though you’re feeling like shit, in a deep, lightless pit, it’s because you are living your lies.
So be honest, be true, and for once, don’t you rue, be yourself, and let others be hanged.
It’s your life, what you do, what you want is your due, so step up, take what’s yours, you’ll be thanked.
And you’ll…” oh, time is up, whaddaya know, time is up! Looks like I’ll have to get off the stage.
One last thing, so you’ll know, and this thing, you must know, death is definitely not all the rage.
So goodbye, and goodnight, hope you’re feeling all right and applause! How so very damned quaint.
Have to go, where I’ll go? I can’t tell you, you know, for a very poor picture it’ll paint.
And as suddenly as she appeared, she disappeared.
Originally Posted On Site: 2008-07-04 15:53:44
Last Login: 07.04.08
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