The Last Hour

Life's ever moving progression
fills many with depression
and the thought they've been left
with neither friend nor foe, bereft
of companionship and care.
And so instead of attempting repair,
they'll show the world its crime
with an exhibition sublime
of suffering, and what's worse
they'll never show remorse
or seek to repair the damage,
turning instead to carnage
inflicted on the imperfect body
which served ever so poorly.
Punishing that which had no power
until they reach that final hour
and so they plunge the knife
giving vent to the frustrations of life
in which they felt despised
perhaps the world would be surprised,
they fear, to find that they exist.
Indeed, it would be quite a twist
to see attention given, save to mock,
and thus they hear the ticking of a clock,
counting down their final days.

My take on all the suicide poems that show up here all the time. I don't really understand them, especially, but this was an effort to try to get inside somebody else's head, just to see if I could, let me know how well it worked, if you'd be so kind. If you must insist on flaming, just're providing seconds of entertainment for myself at your expense, before you're quickly forgotten. Enjoy!