Worth

I balance the knife in my hand,
feeling the weight, gripping it tight.
Unworthy of life, unworthy of love:
is it worth continuing the fight?

Everything I think I know
is proven to be a lie.
I cut my finger on the edge;
with one more cut, I can die.

My life is unnatural, a deception,
and a farce worthy of satire.
I feel that my deeds will go unnoticed
in the long run when I retire.

I have left no lasting impression
on anyone who knows who I am.
I will leave as I came in to life:
slaughter given to a lamb.

A mess of red will be all that's left.
The air will escape my lungs.
I may smile the way my grandfather did.
I may be nothing more than a ladder's rung.

Once I'm gone, people won't have to care
or worry or fret about me anymore.
They won't have to think about me as good,
as bad, as a person, as a whore.

Do I die for the betterment of the world?
Do I die for selfish reasons unknown?
Do I take my life to fertilize a doomed planet,
which will become desolate and overgrown?

Whatever my reasons, the only thing I know
is that I will take some time before I go.
There are things I should do so I can grow.
If I can't do more, I shall feed the crows.

My life is virtually forfeit by now.
I have nothing to show the world.
I have no gains, I have only losses.
My reality is too heavily swirled.

My dreams are plagued by turbulence.
Even my mind foresees my end.
I hope that reincarnation is a lie,
or else I'll have to live through this again.

It's typical of this modern age
to discredit those unworthy of living.
People still say I'm good to others;
of me, they are endlessly forgiving.

They think they identify with my agony.
They believe that they can help.
Too bad it's too late; the knife crosses my throat.
My breath escapes. I can't even yelp.

The years flash before my eyes.
I'm reminded of my doomed life.
I do smile as I fade into darkness.
I thank whatever's holy for this knife.