He wasn't too old,
pulling trigger, his
brain was on someone's
door, shot himself outside
my street, fifty feet away
where I call my abode.

    I'm not jaded.
    I'm a realist.
        Bona fide.

Public suicide, never
got the back-story, but
it doesn't matter, some
shake their heads in sadness,
grieve, two families argue
outside my open window.

    I'm not jaded.
    I'm expectant.
       Just waiting.

It's more real when the young
go BLAM, splattering closer
to home, everyone cares, but
with each word I write-each-word-
you-read-someone-somewhere-
lays-to-rest-so-sad.

    I'm not jaded.
    I'm not a seer.
       It'll happen.

It's not their fault, we store
enough tears in the
beginning of the year for a
few events, and she used mine up
early, I can't find any to shed for
him. I'm looking, but I can't find any.

     I'm not jaded.
        Maybe a little.
           Surprise, you’re that.