Suicide

My mother hates suicide. She tells me to keep it in poetry, to act like demons don't notice me. But what am I to do when all these thoughts write over my plea. Do I sit. Do I stand. Do I ask a question while I raise up my right hand. Or do I give in, and let the waves wash over my lively brand. My lover also hates suicide. She tells me I'm too important to try, that I can go to her when I want to cry. But I can't shed a tear if I send myself to fly. Do I whine. Do I cover my eyes blind. Do I talk until my vocal chords begin to bind. Or do I give in, and leave my broken mind behind. My brother hates suicide as well. He tells me he's here, says we should go get another beer. But what if I drink myself so deep I can't even hear. Do I gaze. Do I shovel shit for a low pay. Do I listen until my ears fall off my fucking face. Or do I give in, and let all these sounds take my place. My mother. My lover. My brother. They all hate suicide. And for that reason alone, I will not die.