Stagmire

My silence was a robe of comfort.

My death was a reality of my birth.

My ignition within my core to jump,

came with no dump, just reaction.

I saw that belief was structure.

I know the low song of tone.

In expectation of Life's delight,

I fight the length of night.

When the Sun begins to wane,

and the moon raises in her stead,

I ponder my fear.

I realize electricity is near.

I attempt to flip a light,

but frozen and uptight,

it is not the night, but the fright,

that creeps into me each night.

My age has reached a year,

where understanding is so very near.

I can begin to know,

not veer, facing yesteryear.

Suicidal thoughts?

Almost everywhere.

They are not mine, they are bought.

By words over phones,

that push the buttons that make you take the action.

Not Me,

I don't believe,

in taking my own life,

it's mine!

Go Away

I wonder about the narration.

The words my mother spoke.

Do you save? or push delete?

hearing only...........erase.

Do you remember for purpose?

Do you remember for prose?

Do you live for clarity?

or

Do you want to know,

the rarity of the truth that was?

I do.