Pick Me Ups

A trigger word in my ear,
key to my ragged ignition,
which when turned
will get my mind racing.

Some visions I’d forgotten
of how I made failure a faith
and disaster its daily sacrament.

Then, a small gun, just big enough
to set a bullet rattling
in my noggin;
a razor blade for picking
my locked arm;
a proper portion of proper pills;
a well-hung noose;
a cliff, ledge, or bridge.

Just give me what I ask for,
if you please.  
I’m being polite,
after all.

Well, you say, none of that
will make you happy;
it will make you angry or sad
or dead.

Eh, you choose
your pick me ups
and I’ll choose mine.

It’s not like you can skip
happy, angry, sad, or dead;
it’s not like any are avoidable.

For me it all comes down to pace
after a while — how quickly
you embrace the inevitable,
how much you value control
of your own timing.  

Me, I’ve got a thing
for punctuality.

I get a rise
out of being early
for important events,
no matter how much pain
they eventually bring,

or how much
I dread them.