Tick-tock

Tick-tock

like the hands of a clock.

My palms grow sweaty

and I drop the Glock.

The seconds, the minutes

they fly on by

I ask myself,

why won't you let me die!?

 

For most of my life

I lived in strife.

All the loss and pain

with nothing to gain.

At the bottom of the river

   even my bones began to shiver

at what I've become.

Saddened by everything I have done.

 

My mind slips,

one hand on the grip.

   The other,

trying not to smother

this last breath of air,

my chest, it cannot bare

it cannot take, surely to break.

Blood pressure rising

that lonely voice advising

'Please don't do it, don't do it,

     DO NOT!'

 

Just make a choice...

Do you want to be better or best?

This is not a test.

So take your finger off the trigger

because you're so much bigger.

 

Now listen real close

to your holy ghost 

as you blaze a path

through the aftermath.

And don't look back,

there's nothing to see.

Except that sad little boy

you once had to be.

 

Pick up the pieces

clean up your mess.

Now you know

how to be a success.

Not one look back

   not even a glimpse

at that pattern of strife

you had called your life.

 

A sound, a voice

had called my name

   "Take my hand,

it'll never be the same."

If you want glory,

   but not the fame

then come with me,

and we shall see.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741