Assisted Suicide Poem by Lynn Stillman

With much of a struggle
up the tower I climb.
Weighed down by anger,
by sorrow,
by my arsenal.
I reach the top
and quickly remove
the rifle from my pack.
Already loaded and good to go.
I find a target in the crosshairs
of the scope.
I squeeze off the first shot.
Suddenly, there is total chaos.
People screaming,
diving for cover.
Another shot rings out,
and another and another.
Now the police are arriving.
They call for my surrender,
but I answer with another shot.
Now they are firing at me.
Just what I was waiting for.
Their bullets are real,
while mine were only blanks.
I just could not fire,
that fatal shot myself.