Reasons Poem by David Whittingham

The look of contempt in my friend’s eye,
My love, now turned to hate,
That patronising, faked smile,
So afraid to even acknowledge me,
Not even as a friend of so many years,
A lover, and a good one,
But even just as a person, but no.

I feel the fires of my rage building
Hate flooding me,
Wonderful and terrible,
Of everyone and everything,
She’s not the problem, just the tip of the iceberg

What do I do?
To make it all go away,
Do I kill, and kill and kill?
Or give in
Take the final end,
And kill myself honourably,
If such a thing can be done,
And yet, the objections come to life,
The scorn and hatred poured on the selfish killer,
Could I bare what I do to my loved ones?
If anyone has ever loved me,
Is there ever is a fair way of doing it,
Who will morn for me?
You?
I stare out at my last sunset,
I realise its beauty,
And miss this life,
Then I sharpen my knife,
Prepare my poison, tighten my noose,

Yet there must be more than life than this,
One hopes,
So I plod on,
Regardless,
Maybe now is not the end, merely a new beginning,
What do you believe?
Truly really believe,
When it comes right down to it.