A Plea
I’m desperately depressed,
Hating myself more than
Anything else I know:
I have nightmares each
And every blackout night,
And want to slit my wrist
Every God-forsaken
Hangover morning.
There’s a subtle
Romanticism to the
Thought of jumping
Into the Red River
And swimming till
My muscles fail.
If someone held
A gun to my head
And asked for
All the money I had
I’d ask him to please
Pull that trigger
And let me go.
But every day,
I get out of bed
And put on a fresh
Set of clean clothes,
And go out into
The terrible and
Destructive world.
If I can make it
Over the threshold
Of my mattress
Without crossing
The threshold between
Life and death, then
So can you.
