Why I Chose Not To Kill Myself Poem by Anton K

I stare at the stars, and the bee-like
clockwork of the ever-busy city,
and they gaze back in placid hostility,
telling me two things - telling
them often and over and not even
ceasing as I slip into sleep. The
stars say that I am small, a fraction of
a blink in age among eons and time
without end. An unseen jot on an
infinite page, packed with unreadable
script. My planet is a wet speck of
dust in a dust storm in a desert of
worlds in a world without end.

The city streets say that I am
not needed. The traffic and commerce
and dealings and cog-like order
in the concrete streets slaves on and
on without any help from me. I am just
another throat to contract and
cough amid the exhaust of the buses and
taxis. I am just a pair of legs amid
the rushing, important-seeming pedestrian
throng. And I think, I have no reason
to live - and even if I did or will,
what does it matter? Why prolong the
futile charade? Why march along in the
pointless parade?

It only ends in death at last. It ends
for you - and on it goes. You didn't
mean a thing to the world, the world
that sings as you decay, the world that
laughs and loves and lies and loses its
memory of you as you rot. As you crumble
into coffin-covered dust.

But, out of birdlike cowardice, I flew
away from thinking - I drowned myself
in amusing distractions and diversions -
which are the only things that make
our joke-brief existences bearable. And
I wonder when that new movie's coming out?