Death

This is a really weird one. Let me start off by saying that I'm not, and never have been suicidal. That being said, when I did my self-hypnosis exercises (mentioned in a previous posting) the goal was to figure out what caused the panic attacks. I decided to write "Death" in a different style than I had written my other poetry. This one started with a narrative describing the confusion about panic, an attempt to understand it, a thought that maybe there wasn't anything strange about it at all, and finally a conclusion that fear of death was normal because self-preservation was the only purpose of life. I know it's a really weird concept, but at least try to enjoy the sarcasm.

The narrative leads to a light hearted poem about a very dark thought...suicide. Please take it in the spirit that it was created; warped fun about what life without meaning would be.

DEATH

I feel the butterflies.
Sometimes they take me by surprise.
There is no pattern.
There is no rhyme nor reason.
The butterflies are here, then they are gone.
No!
They are always here.
But sometimes I pay them no attention.
What do they mean?
Living is being afraid.
It's instinctive.
Animals are always watchful for danger.
They do not trust.
They dare not trust.
But, the higher the form of life, the lower the vigilance.
What is the purpose of our being?
Maybe there is no purpose.
But, if not.......

It strikes me as somewhat confusing,
The reason for being alive,
And I find it somewhat amusing,
How strongly we fight to survive.

If life doesn't have any purpose,
Then why this obsession of man,
To stay on this earth's lousy surface,
As long as he possibly can.

If dying were really such horror,
Then no one would ever go through it,
But look at the obits tomorrow,
And tell me why so many do it.

The lesson that's here for the gleaning,
Is simple as black and white,
Since life clearly doesn't have meaning,
Why not just end it tonight?

Steve Pein
26 May 1994
Copyright 1994
.