Don’t Murder Me and Call it Suicide

Don’t murder me, and call it suicide
I have the will to live
Though my body aches in fatigue
I fight harder than the un-afflicted
To pretend it’s all okay
Have you ever carried the weight
Of the heartbreak of ten thousand hopeless romantics?
Have you ever been held hostage,
And endured the Lingchi?
Wounds dressed and treated with lemon juice and salt
Hooked up to the Machine
To suck hours of life away each day
Mind lost in thought, about the futures that may have  been
This murder-to-be orchestrated  by a twisted tribunal
The Hypothalamus, Pituitary, and Adrenal
Force-feed cortisol, saturating organs
Drunk-driving, heart racing
Fighting and flighting
No, I am not going to commit suicide
I am a prisoner of war
Captive to my mind, my past, my trauma
A battle against all odds
10,512,000 minutes
Each at the price of an hour of my life
If I go, it will be a murder
My  body haven given out under the stress of unending torture
From which I cannot escape, nor from which I could be freed
I would write a plea to live
To challenge and tear down this tyrant
To bring humanitarian aid those that believe themselves inhuman
To lift the load on those that feel themselves a burden
To be the voice of the voiceless, and then their voice coach
Even Atlas takes a bow to the obstacles we overcome
And though even gods die, I will fight.
I am not dead, yet.


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