Saturday, April 22, 2006
no this is not a suicide note
but why has it got to be me?
i'm only entitled to a little bit of hope,
why can't they let me be?
i apologise, that i can't be perfect.
well i still don't want to die.
weak and useless, i guess at times,
but it's you who won't let the sleeping dogs lie.
a being, so tortured; the soul burns
as dry as desert sand.
yet i don't even ask for love
or someone to hold my hand.
in a place where free space and happiness
is all-so-rarified,
my tiny beacon of hope and joy
is crushed and crucified.
i'm sorry for a number of things,
including the way i am.
i'm sorry for being sorry,
on your pride i mar.
i'm sorry if i look like a quitter,
you would not in peace let me stay in this place.
how sorry that in this enclosure
there hardly lies a friendly face.
i'm sorry this is not a suicide note,
if you all want me dead but not gone.
'cause i'm entitled to the hope upon which i hang,
i wait, i hope, to be re-born.
