Could You?

Could you do it?

                                                  Could you write down all your goodbyes?

                        Could you swallow the fistful of pills past the knot in your throat?

            Could you slice open the sensitive and delicate skin of your wrists?

                              Could you tie the thick, rough rope and slip on your noose?

                            Could you wait for death’s dark hand to conquer your senses? 

 Could you fight your intuition, screaming for survival?

                     There’s no hope left, but then again, hope always was

                                    the cruelest of the sufferings that

                                                            burst from the box of the

                                                                        dangerously curious Pandora.

Hope is unfair.

                        Hope chooses.

            Hope debilitates some while they are forced to watch others uplifted.

                                                   To conquer hope, is to choose one’s death.

                                    I scheduled death.

                                                I conquered hope.

                                                                        I conquered hope?

                                    ….. I conquered nothing.

Written September 2011