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Death. A poem

Suicide Sensitive









When I died my head hurt.
The world was spinning round,
Everything was white,
I could still hear sound.

When I died I felt peace,
Everything seemed still,
No regret, not sorry,
No more days to fill.

When I died a fire,
Grew inside my head,
White hot explosions,
Soon I would be dead.

When I died I felt like,
Life was slipping away,
It seemed to take a while,
When I died that day.

Except I didn't die,
I woke to lights of blue,
Cold, wet and frightened,
Not knowing what to do.

I cried because I lived,
Worse was yet to come,
Surviving your death,
Isn't that much fun.

That quietness over,
Peace shattered again,
Relentless questions,
All the whys and whens.

Dying hurts a bit,
Surviving hurts more,
Stares, tears and shame,
More than was before.

Dying isn't easy,
But better I feel,
Than living in a mind,
That will refuse to heal.

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