Amsie
The Fly
I'm new here, and I don't know anyone, but I like sharing my work with people I don't know, rather than those I do know... 
I wrote this a while ago. What do you think? (Ps. I don't want to offend anyone either, so if you don't like stuff that's graphic, or on suicide, don't read on 
)
Daffodil River
Goodbye to my family,
Goodbye to my friends;
Until we meet again,
I wish you all the best.
If I could make things better,
Then believe me, I would try;
But my failure to do so,
Only makes me want to die.
How typical, how pathetic,
Once more, to turn unto a knife;
But at least this way is fitting,
For me to choose to end my life.
I leave this note upon my bed,
And take one last look back;
My ugly room, my memories,
The virtues that I lack.
The bear was once as big as me,
And sits upon my floor;
And my dusty violin,
Will not make music anymore.
Carefully, I make my way,
Down the creaking stairs;
Thinking once more, sadly,
That nobody really cares.
But when I reach the room downstairs,
Something makes me pause;
Where the barren dining table,
Blends into the dull wood floors.
And as I stand, transfixed,
By the memory in my eye;
A scene unfolds before me,
On the table worn and dry:
A father-figure shouting,
Standing up, embodies power;
And a child whimpers, frightened,
Behind a vase of yellow flowers.
My Father screams louder,
And I begin to cry;
Everyone is staring,
With accusing frowns and eyes.
I am so downtrodden;
A figure defeated but -
For my two defiant eyes,
Fixed onto a chipped blue jug.
My tears now form a river,
It's unjust, it's so unfair;
"Lift your face!" is barked,
As I'm pulled up by my hair.
Terrified by the prospect,
Of what will happen next -
My eyes are screwed up fiercely -
My fists are tightly clenched.
And as I felt the slap endure,
My face barely hurt;
Before the vase arose before us,
And to flames, the flowers burst.
And as the blackened petals weep,
Down softly to the table;
The memory, the vision,
Grows steadily less stable.
Until I find myself, standing
Once again alone;
There is no turning back,
And my mind now, turns to stone.
I'm sitting on a bridge now,
Up above a swirling river;
Huddled against cold rain,
And wind, I begin to shiver.
I reach blindly to my pocket,
And pull out a long, thin knife.
This somehow, is not, I imagined,
How I would end my life.
I push the blade into my wrist,
And it pierces through my skin;
The pain is quite euphoric,
The cut is deep and thin.
Through tearful eyes, I look
Down; My wrist steadily bleeds,
And I am calmed to see, daffodils,
In between the river reeds.
The flowers are no longer
Charred, or black, or burning;
I know they saved me once before,
Their message is unfurling;
And as I look below,
To the river's edge, they lace;
I know this world I'm leaving, is
Too beautiful, a place.
I smile down at the flowers,
Floating gently in the river;
I'm beginning to grow weak,
And my body starts to quiver.
My head is so heavy now,
My breathing enslaves me;
And as I bow my head, I know,
The daffodils will save me.
I wrote this a while ago. What do you think? (Ps. I don't want to offend anyone either, so if you don't like stuff that's graphic, or on suicide, don't read on ) Daffodil River
Goodbye to my family,
Goodbye to my friends;
Until we meet again,
I wish you all the best.
If I could make things better,
Then believe me, I would try;
But my failure to do so,
Only makes me want to die.
How typical, how pathetic,
Once more, to turn unto a knife;
But at least this way is fitting,
For me to choose to end my life.
I leave this note upon my bed,
And take one last look back;
My ugly room, my memories,
The virtues that I lack.
The bear was once as big as me,
And sits upon my floor;
And my dusty violin,
Will not make music anymore.
Carefully, I make my way,
Down the creaking stairs;
Thinking once more, sadly,
That nobody really cares.
But when I reach the room downstairs,
Something makes me pause;
Where the barren dining table,
Blends into the dull wood floors.
And as I stand, transfixed,
By the memory in my eye;
A scene unfolds before me,
On the table worn and dry:
A father-figure shouting,
Standing up, embodies power;
And a child whimpers, frightened,
Behind a vase of yellow flowers.
My Father screams louder,
And I begin to cry;
Everyone is staring,
With accusing frowns and eyes.
I am so downtrodden;
A figure defeated but -
For my two defiant eyes,
Fixed onto a chipped blue jug.
My tears now form a river,
It's unjust, it's so unfair;
"Lift your face!" is barked,
As I'm pulled up by my hair.
Terrified by the prospect,
Of what will happen next -
My eyes are screwed up fiercely -
My fists are tightly clenched.
And as I felt the slap endure,
My face barely hurt;
Before the vase arose before us,
And to flames, the flowers burst.
And as the blackened petals weep,
Down softly to the table;
The memory, the vision,
Grows steadily less stable.
Until I find myself, standing
Once again alone;
There is no turning back,
And my mind now, turns to stone.
I'm sitting on a bridge now,
Up above a swirling river;
Huddled against cold rain,
And wind, I begin to shiver.
I reach blindly to my pocket,
And pull out a long, thin knife.
This somehow, is not, I imagined,
How I would end my life.
I push the blade into my wrist,
And it pierces through my skin;
The pain is quite euphoric,
The cut is deep and thin.
Through tearful eyes, I look
Down; My wrist steadily bleeds,
And I am calmed to see, daffodils,
In between the river reeds.
The flowers are no longer
Charred, or black, or burning;
I know they saved me once before,
Their message is unfurling;
And as I look below,
To the river's edge, they lace;
I know this world I'm leaving, is
Too beautiful, a place.
I smile down at the flowers,
Floating gently in the river;
I'm beginning to grow weak,
And my body starts to quiver.
My head is so heavy now,
My breathing enslaves me;
And as I bow my head, I know,
The daffodils will save me.
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I would say it's niether beautiful nor incredible though 
though no doubt you'd get sick of them as they seem to follow much the same trends as this one
