A suicide note, English Existential poetry, drugs, death, David Bullen

This hollowness in body and mind,
An emptiness that with optimism can be fed.
There are no enemies greater than this enemy inside
When there's a syringe in my hand there's a cannon in my head.
With ease and freedom a miracle of life can be shed like a tear.
A stinking step, not too long or my intention will subside,
A terrorising fear inducing a feeling of regret
And to die in regret with such a big step is something I will not abide.
These healing, sacrificial sweets can suffice my desire for death,
A lingering and painless journey to terminate the sadness,
When an unsuspected saviour embezzles the death of me,
So awaken to faint figures and feelings of pity to add to the madness.
Perhaps the Devil's own fingers clasped around my begging neck,
Their rupturing teeth digging deep, squeezing out the soul
'Til the torpidness shrouds my body in its covetous cape
And this collar embedded in my wooden, dungeoned hole,
I know not which corner to take on my detour to damnation
But which, I conclude, will not alter the course.
They all congregate at the crossroads of eternal judgment,
With this slaved stake thrust in my heart, ordained by laws,
So what do I confront? An undying torture conjured in minds of man
Or this unexistable torment endured with its spirit swelling,
And would my name be uttered in discourse in years to come
Or remain dormant in dishonour scarred above my humble dwelling.