On this night of the
dead...The night that
the dead rise, this maybe
the night that I, one of
the alive may fall.
I may fall to the floor
and never get up.

The don't feel guilty for
pushing me over the
edge...They never have
and never will. They
don't learn from their
mistakes. They wont ever learn.

I realize now that
my childhood days are
over...the happy
memories and dreams
have left me and
the nightmares
remain.

Why?

Why do I stare at
the medicine
cabinet?
Why do I stare at
the butcher knife?

Why is my soul dying but my
hands dont't have the
courage to finish the job?

Im wasting away,

Can't you see that?

Im wasting away
On the night that
the dead survive
and the alive disintigrate
into cavities.

Let the dead rise and
watch me fall.

Goodbye.

S.H.

Well, this was written on the Halloween when I was 14. I was ordered to stay home because I was "too old" to go trick-or-treating. Ah...the irony of it all. Thats okay though. I'm okay now, for the moment. I have over come that depression, for now. This poem was just a sliver of a voice crying out for help. People in this situation should know that they are not alone, and that there is hope. People with this pain, this agonizing torturous battle inside their souls, should channel these feelings through expression. Never, ever give up hope. There is always tomorrow.

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