Morgan Siegel (27/06/1996 / New Zealand)
The End Of The Barrel
...Cold and hard, but dangerous none the less...
I sit alone holding my depart in my hands.
My bed no longer provides comfort.
Only pain; soft, it may be...
...Black and cold... like holding my own heart...
I slowly move it around in my hands.
I stop with it pointing up at me.
Black as the void, twice as lethal...
...Three are needed; each instrumental...
I get up staggering to the table, I slump down.
I place it onto the table, it speaks with a *Kathunk*
I just stare at it... contemplating when...
...I feel Death's stare, cold and dreaded...
I begin to cry, whilst anger surges through.
I quickly seize it, I hold it to my head.
Quivering with rage, I struggle... why is it so hard?
I close my eyes and tears start away...
...He is coming, I can feel him...
I take a breath, and begin... it is soon.
I squeeze the trigger...
...'Hello, you are ready I see'...
'F-Father please help me... I-I cannot do this anymore.'
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Comments about this poem (The End Of The Barrel by Morgan Siegel )
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