Childhood Suicide

Spin the clock – the unplanned joy - and
hope and plans can only cover the daylight
hours. You don't know where you'll land – teenage
years of rape and hatred – but that's not true now.
You don't know where you'll land - perhaps a baptism of fire;
the childhood days struggling to speak. Adult years pass
at the bottom of a bottle, it's far from perfect but it's a living.

I see love, I see sex, I see moonlight hours waning as you
wait for life to pause. The clock-face is killing me – tick and
tick – a new eccentricity and a new city. Heartache and tambourines
mark the passage of adulthood, we're waiting on life to work out. I remember
a childhood in anxiety; six years old with suicide on the mind – but sixteen
years down and I'm sorry. Twenty-four with wasted love and swollen ribcages;
I can see love and an indentured relationship.

A bundle of hopes and dreams; a child in pride and expectations – a
lifetime plan of success and happiness must be in tatters now. But with
bulimia down the drain and depression up in flames, you'd have thought
problems would dissipate. But now I see that you understand how life
turns, and there's no point fighting apathy. And suicide – in all appeals -
alleviates all of the problems of life. I'd like to see to you ignore this point of
concern – the clock will spin again.