I Wanted To Kill Myself

I wanted to kill myself 

Not because death is an easy way out

But because I believed my death will bring me the needed attention.

After all, when do we notice a street dog? 

When it is alive and running around? 

Or when it lies on the middle of the road, blanketed by its blood? 

I wanted to kill myself

Not because I did not have people to help me

But because I couldn’t bring about myself to tell someone, “Hey! Help me!” 

We have devices that track the number of steps we walk in a day

We have devices that track the number of hours we sleep in a night

Why don’t we have a device that goes off when we need help? 

I wanted to kill myself 

Not because I did not have a purpose

But because I had a purpose and I didn’t know how to make it pay me. 

When you are caught between the semicolons in a computer program and a prose piece

When you spend the office hours thinking about writing 

And when you spend the weekends trying to finish the long-pending office work

When your friends tell you your writing is good

And when the publishers tell you you have a long way to go

Purpose expresses itself as poetry and pain. 

I wanted to kill myself

Not because I had nightmares

But because I had dreams filled with hope and happiness. 

If you’re happy in a dream, does that count? 

If you find love in a dream, does that count? 

If you make your parents proud in a dream, does that count? 

I wanted to kill myself

Till a stranger hugged me at the suicide point

And said, “After all, you are a writer. 

When you can give birth to ideas,

Why don’t you kill an idea once?” 

And here I am.

I am only used to giving birth on paper

And killing a part of myself in real life. 

But I must admit that this is nice – 

Killing an idea on paper

And giving birth to myself in real life.