Death calls to me and I usually listen

It is as if it is holding out its hand waiting for me to grab

hold and ease the tension of living by ending

Sometimes I'm so eager to take hold of this

but my palm is sweating with consequence

I'm afraid I might slip

So I simply shake hands

All these suicidal passions...

Is it my fault that reality is the greatest killer of them all?

Not death, it is merely a necessity

Eventually leading to my destruction

Forever