I see the knife press on their skin.How easy it’d be to just push it in.I think of all the things they’d doIf they weren’t suícîdâl.The places they’d go,The people they’d see.The things that they’d do,The person they’d be.I see the knife lay in their grasp.They don’t want this to be their last.I see them think of things they’d doIf they weren’t suicidal.The songs that they’d sing,The love that they’d give.If they only stopped nowAnd decided to live.I see the knife fall out their handAnd they grow weak, just can’t stand.They’re overjoyed, with the idea of life,Because they’re not sûîcīdál.This poem is forsuicide awareness