There was an it once, about ye high and ye thin
with a mouth that spewed gospels of joy and tickles.
A hefty charge, it was, to on your shoulders have,
for people of grim and bright sought after his speech.
One day its chest tightened, trachea broke, and
its eyes, bloodshot, deranged, peaceful.
"Suicide!" They're quick to call.
"But he was so happy!" Question, question, doubt, doubt.
Amongst the mumbles words like "trend" and "attention" are thrown around
like worms on a hook, craving to be eaten.
Nobody acknowledges the lies and the deceit
The appearance and pretension
Or the cloak drawn in front of the mirror.
Because when a worm is hooked and thrown into ice
fishers don't stop to think about the plunging stab in its slick abdomen.
So why would anyone care for the clawing creature
making its way through clawing and scratching?
The puke and vomit and waste spewed from his mouth
were dutiful proprietors, rightful owners.
His persona, his persona
attention, plea for help, unnecessary, life-saving.
In society, you're the face.
Society, it's in your face.
No longer are you a you, you're an it.
Something for others to judge and critiqued by hearsay,
no firsthand knowledge.
And "suicide!" they're quick to call,
too afraid of the reason, of the "it", of the encompassing word: