Scapegoat

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This really goes out as a plea to anyone that's considered something like this.

Submitted: December 01, 2008

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Submitted: December 01, 2008

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A grey day, the moon shining through,
The window, the curtain half open,
I sit there watching,
The pistol sitting on the table,
My so-called salvation.

I guess its the weight,
That life piles on, problems,
Of one man, amount to little,
In this world, is there really,
Only one way out?

The moonlight glints,
Off the gateway, lying,
Silently on the table,
Sliding the clip into it,
Here we go.

I raise it slowly,
The light flickers, dancing,
I hold the exit in my hand,
Is this the way to go,
Can I turn back?

I raise the gun, pointing,
At the side of my head,
All I need to do,
Is pull the trigger,
And i'm out, free,

My hands shaking to much,
I can't aim, i'm having doubts,
Can I or can't I?
Thats the question i'm thinking,
That's the one holding me back.

No, I can't,
With a sigh I let my arm drop,
It wont help, it isn't a solution,
The pistol isnt,
A scapegoat to life's problems.

We only have one life as ourselves, why waste it?


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