Seppuku

Would you drive a dagger through yourself,
Unless reality, with its daily grisly ritual
Is used to cutting you deeper, bleeding harder?

Would you fall on a sword,
Unless the sharp blow slowly tearing into you,
Is still less cruel, still hurts lesser,
Than that daily sucker punch in your gut?

Would you, by your own hands,
Choose to stop the manic rhythm in your chest
Unless in its last beating throes, your dying heart,
Thanks you, for freedom, for emancipation
From the fist that was reaching into your ribs,
Crushing it, crumbling it, ripping you apart.