The Job

Why does the thought of death
The feeling of ending this life
The torture, the pain, the hurt
The discomfort I cause,
Why does it feel so right?

But the thought of the pain
The mechanics, the method
The hows and wherefores..
Why is that so beyond me,
my abilities, My confidence?

I know I would be better dead
All I care for is others
All I do is hurt others
All I want to do is leave others
To their lives away from me

Is my inability from caring?
Knowing the final act of hurt
The final ability to screw others
To give those who truly care
A pain even I haven't done before?

But they would recover
And they could see it was done
Maybe not consciously, but truly
For the best for them
And therefore the best for me.

Is it fear that stops me?
The inability to take the pain
I couldn't inflict on myself
The yellow man I am,
The quitter, never finishing the Job

So I carry on to conceal the feelings
Trying to do all I can for all
And still I hurt and give pain
Cause confusion wherever I go
That is why I pray to die.

Anonymous