Suicide by Loneliness

Mary loneliness never felt so alone has the day she killed herself
It was just her, and herself, and a tight and hard belt
Dancing in the solitude of alone, no fortitude of bone
Sown from end to skin, on empty state to end kin
Been in this Mary so many times, oh but never as this time
Loneliness is a less or more killing knife in prime
And Mary is a sea of solitude sailing into a port without ship…
And this ship of Mary go Around is bound
To sailing into a castaway mutiny of sailors
Needle and knife stuck to the skin as in laibours
and under the flesh, inside, in the dark shadow
Laibours nothing but perish, an arrow that will bow
Lower her from human to undead, and on this day
The sailing never got to any Bay
On this day Mary was today, on making a story end
She was not a writer, a part from the knife cuts, never a pen
An pain is a drama or no saint, torture is a hurtful art form
No part, no extra soul to touch or merge and her its born
The poem of name, Suicide by Loneliness
Of this I am sure, it will be renamed Suicide by Solitude
Minus me and her, forgotten into Silence of composure
No armour, No Marker, No calmer, this storm
In silence she died, before this day, yet, comes this alone suicide
From dust to ashes and ashes into phoenix
On this day she did it, and on the next day, she relived it
She used to say, “You die, every time, you spend a minute of total loneliness
There is nothing there, no thing on that moment, just nothing and less”
Wise in spite, sick in blight, always shining and burning inside
In all those 60 seconds of that dying minute you touch your soul
In that tact you you feel the part that they have stole
As those die, there is no paint in your face or tights that will mask the dead
And in this bed, she would never cut her skin again or numb this with pills
Nothing she has to do, solitude will pay all the bills now
As that Mary, dear Solitude will kill her, ending herself….

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