Do it.
Shoot yourself
in a place where it will be bloody
and fatal.
Shoot yourself in something like a church.
In a manner designed to stink up the place.
With your foot in your mouth.
With a bullet that fits between your toes
after it’s traveled through your teeth.
Do it.
Tell everyone you’re going to.
Surrender the life you’ve succeeded with
and focus on the failures, they’re heavier
and are more coherent.
Explain it in a note that seems pathetic
even before you’re done.
Decide to say nothing but make sure
you announce the lack of announcement.
Spit the poison you’ve chosen into a face
that meant nothing once, still means nothing
at all, you tell yourself.
Do it.
Suicide the daylight poem
that is you
and maintain the night time novel
that is you.
Disallow the comment period
like some sleazy politician.
You are a sleazy politician, you know.
You never knew that.  You knew that
the whole time.
Vigorous, dumbfounded regularly,
you were always a bored benchwarmer
with a fine sense of imbalance.
Blame it all on your bipolar disorder
then blame none of it on your bipolar disorder.
Try to explain how many times a day
you have thought about it since you were a kid
and let them yawn.  Yawn right back.
Baboon them with a threat display
that will end in an attack.
This time, you really mean it.
Putz, footnote, prove it to them.
Do it.
Do it.
Make it happen, you procrastinator.
Just because you like putting things off
doesn’t mean
you won’t have to follow through
sometime. Do it
do it do it.  This time
the voices aren’t just babbling,
they have a point.