Cough, cough, cough up the black licorice fire of charcoal vomit from the medicinal spasm in my torturous thoughts.
Think, think, think of the wind soaked blue grey flight nearly leaped from the sunset 8th floor balcony.
Taste, taste, taste the cold blue steel of the 32 mm revolver on my tongue against the brain intended bullet.
Suicide skips this spot today, only to visit again, with hopes to steal the soul of a pain-soaked, willing victim, ready to plunge head first into concrete coffins of city sidewalks, leaving stains of sorrow.
Stains that beg forgiveness from those who cannot comprehend a life of being hunted by pain.