Текст: Frank Turner. Poetry Of The Deed. Richard Divine.

Richard Divine made up his mind to take the last few steps
to the bathroom door from his bedroom floor and to lock himself in.
Steady young hands, meticulous plans,
disposable razors and a blisterpack filled with strong sleeping pills,
and a bath of hot water.
He carefully wrote a funerary note
on his best writing paper to set out the facts,
and sealed it with wax, and left it in the kitchen.
He left it out so his parents would know what there was waiting for them:
pale cold skin and blood seeping in to the landing carpet.
He said he?s not for sale, said that he felt hounded,
crowded and surrounded by this life he didn?t choose.
But everybody plays this game on a daily basis.
They?re not heroes, they?re survivors,
and it?s not Shakespearian if they lose.
So do what you want, do what the voices tell you,
but don?t ever say that we didn?t warn you.
He said he?s not for sale, but he bought into his failure.
He?s telling tales that hammer nails right into open palms.
A martyr in reverse, he?s best at being worst,
the rest of us are cursed but we keep calm and we carry on.
So Richard, here it is: none of us are blameless, huddled here like strangers,
shameless in our lists of all the changes we say we need.
But I think that you knew that,
you can?t pretend it?s news that when you cut yourself you?ll bleed.