Alvin didn't want to be
anybody else.
He didn't want to be
himself either.
Money wasn't a problem.
He loved his wife and kids.
Doctors said he
wasn't depressed.
Maybe a hobby
would help.
One suggested golf.
Another chess.
The time has come,
Alvin wrote in his journal.
A bullet would be messy
and poison painful.
So Alvin flew to Holland.
A doctor gave him a pill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
He should have taken up chess instead! (The best game ever invented.) I love the poem, but don't like to think about the ending.