Committing Suicide Poem by James McLain

The sun has shone,
but my eye does not look at the light.
The moon is full so am I.
I try not to write.
I look at the pinks and blacks.
I look at the laughing of the people,
everything which but I hear is to labored I shout.
I am not that mentally ill,
somewhere I am, not so strange, she is.
Everything which I feel is not pain.
I of whom like you have been gushed from such wrists.
If I am that raw juicy oyster full of colored pearls.
You rub it.
You squeeze it.
You taste the salt in it.
It runs down your chin.
Your tongue.
Your lips look at my purple blood.
It sits you down within it entirely.
Independently in your room for more.
I feel like making it congested, as for my part.
Everything which is heard there it is.
I sleep the sleep of eyes.
I dream the dream of your dream of death.
The blood is covered with floor.
Your panties wrapped around my tight feet.
Hiding my toes they are sleek.
Parents who were drunk
and the boyfriend who almost killed me it whispers.
Plunging in, pushing it out, I am afraid I have become.
One opposite end of the white hole,
from which nothing but more spewing come.
And join me I take me in my next to last breath.
This is for you, this is for me.
It is everything.
Which can be used for committing used suicides.