Mom knocked on the door.
I gulped down the feeling and lived
four more years.
The second time, I tried to kill myself.
The cat spilled the milk in the kitchen,
And that bought me a few more years.
An okayish time after that, I guess.
The third time, I was overwhelmed by
a fresh poem. I had to scribble it down
Before I could do the honours.
But then, between that poem and
the next few hundred,
I got few collections published,
and they are alright, I suppose.
Well, the fourth attempt was pretty
serious, but she called after a decade,
and I married her eventually.
Marriage is a demise in a way,
but may not be equal to killing oneself.
Then I slid through life: children, wife,
school and whatnot.
I think about my fifth and sixth,
but bloody hell, neither I get any
time or privacy to ponder over
my intrusive thoughts.
For the seventh, I made up my mind but
In the final moment, I started laughing.
That's after standing on the stool with
the noose around my neck.
Life looked pretty small from up there.
Life indeed was laughable.
But more than that, Death was more
worthy of that laughter,
For I have mocked it many a time.
So I climb down at my good sixties.
Or bad? I don't know. Averaging an
attempt for each decade. Yet,
shamelessly missing my intended aim.
Sometimes, doesn't it seem that
Life itself is inevitable?
And death, at most,
Is an accident that didn't happen
to you on good days.