As Dark as the Night Gets

Ultimately, it will end me.
Not today, nor tomorrow,
But, finally.
My mind spreads throughout the room,
Trying to breach the walls,
Each attempt grows weaker,
And with each effort I shrink further.
I avoid the mirror for days,
Evade sleep for longer:
I think for hours about more than
The world could stand to ignore.
Then, there on the cusp, in the realm
They refuse to write about,
I stumble on a terrible mantra
And know then that life…
Life is merely the accumulation of courage
To end it.
And so, at the bottom of the world,
With a weak pen swept determination,
I wrote of my death, a silent, lucid tome,
Under the shade of the vacant hope
That it would be read.
I had the sentences, the sentiments,
But the arrangement wouldn’t settle.
I wrote until the birds began their day,
And I stood, disgusted at their music,
Disposed of the paper
Hoping to lose my new maxim.
Even now, years apart,
I struggle and strive to find the words
To complete my composition.