Ideational Note

Tired of the abuse, a written death note.

Thoughts to think,
thinking of thoughts to sync.
What to do,
for I am through.

She is the dark,
the abuser in the park.
Her nails shoveled my skin,
the stepmother of sins,
imagined violins,
while the room spins.

I'm finished with the sadness,
done with the badness,
I'm turning to the madness.

Death to self,
by what's on the shelf.

Silvery bullets of decease,
the velvety red rose,
enclosed,
this shiny piece,
to bring anticipated peace,
awe, the sweet release.

There's no more pain.
Let her know,
she was to blame.

Time to let go,
for,
I am free,
free from her chain.