Fictions Of Suicide Poem by Parwez Hwma

Every day we forget about death.
It's a question which needs to be answered,
It doesn't need to come, it's already here.
I can answer it, I can touch it.
I know not, whether life is place or process!
Maybe both,
For me:
I think none!
I confess: I'm mentally sick.
I've got it here,
Right here, in this process.

Silent and stable,
(Seeing) is an incomplete definition.
(Word) the cat got its tongue.
What a sculptor God is?
If soul separates from the statue,
Materialism will be devastated.
I shall place death in this poem
Or I will commit suicide.

This poem goes to demonstration!
Freedom is a paint-bucket and
It won't paint the entire town.
Fiction squeezes my head:

First:
I fly throughout the building,
I think for high.
But,
One, two..
My corpse is landing,
Tomorrow, my picture wears the safety belt!


Second:
The roof falls down a rope,
It seems that, it wants me to get rid of something.
It hug around my neck and
My corpse starts to swing!


Third:
I fill my hands with pray.
I swallow them with the mixture of the pills.
Tomorrow,
In a hospital's judgment day,
My corpse is frozen.


Forth:
I steal a gun from the bookkeepers,
And stick it to my head
While watching a painting.
I shot the propagation of Van Gogh
And splash my dreams to the wall.
It becomes a red painting!


Fifth:
I'm in the kitchen, oil is everywhere.
A lighter is in my hand.
I miss my childhood.
Promptly I give light to the yard.
Tomorrow,
The smell of my burnt body
will awake the neighbors.


Sixth:
Still I'm here,
Drinking the last tumbler wine,
Even death come,
I can't stand up for.
Reality chases my fictions.
It calls them 'propagation of paradox'
Toward death, I have thousands of ears
And two hearts.
Before sleeping, I confess:
I don't dare suicide!
Let it go.