Suicide.

It's a simple thing, not complicated at all,

Just grab something sharp, make a few careful cuts, and poof,

The pain ends.

Or does it?

What drew you to the blade in the first place?

A word.

A sight.

An image.

An act.

A name.

A whisper.

A family.

All of them, cloaks for the real reason; the reason hiding within them:

Pain.

Pain slashed your soul long before your neck,

Your heart before your wrists,

You before you.

Pain drove your determination not to give in, 

At least until it collapsed from exhaustion,

Pain drove your anger at those that had hurt you,

At least until your fire burned out,

Pain drove your apathy, helped you ignore every word,

At least, it used to; 

Then you reached the straw that broke the camels back.

So you picked up your razor, 

Or your knife,

Or your shard of glass,

And you pulled it close in a loving embrace,

But before it peirced your flesh, you felt tears in your eyes;

Not the tears you expected,

Ones of sorrow or of pain,

But tears of joy and relief:

The pain is over after today.

So you close your eyes,

Feel a smile on your lips,

And.

You.

Pull.

... you pull it silently, quickly through your flesh,

Feeling it part, 

And cut off your breath.

You panic for a moment,

Then it's over;

Your gone.

Unless something different happened,

Maybe you heard a song,

So you lower the blade and go on.

You push through the pain till it's over and done,

And you stand proud and joyful,

You conquered that throng.

But for others, another thing happens,

They stand there so long,

They feel the sharp edge near their throat,

And are saved.

Or they pull it away from their neck,

Raise it higher,

And kiss the object that nearly saved them from the fire,

Of other people's ire;

Then they lock it away and move on with their life,

Never needing any more than that moment of relief,

That the razor gave them;

Every moment after, they regret nearly doing it,

They shudder at the memory.

It haunts them still.

Let this be a warning to those in this life,

Pain can be lost, 

Just as easily as a life.

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(A/N) Hey guys! Sorry for the somber note, but random stories pop into my head, and I feel the urge to write them, no matter whose they are or what they contain. Many people have felt this, gone through this; and it's not okay. Whomever hurts people with their words, whomever makes life all but unlivable for someone else, needs to stop and think about what's happening. If you push someone to that point, the point where death is more livable than the nightmare of their life, you have pushed them to commit suicide; you've practically committed murder. And to you who have these thoughts and feelings, don't give up hope. There are still people who care for you; life is still sweeter than the taste or embrace of deaths cold flesh. Stay with us; please.

Your poet,

-ShadeFinder(~^')