Here is an example of Fiorella's type of poetry, a tight little sonnet on suicide she wrote years ago when she was very depressed. The "Dorothy" to whom it is addressed is Dorothy Parker, who wrote "Razors pain you;/Rivers are damp;/Acids stain you;/And drugs cause cramp./Guns aren't lawful;/Nooses give;/Gas smells awful;/You might as well live." Ol' Dorothy wrote pretty tight herself--and used punctuation out the wazoo.
Ah, Dorothy, your choice was much too rash:
There are other options I could recommend
Than poison, razors, nooses, guns, or gas
To bring about a graceful, private end.
The suffocation of the spirit's one--
On shallow breaths, hope is inclined to smother;
An assault on the heart can get it done,
The strangulation of the soul's another.
Then you still could walk about, though dead,
A lumbering, slack-jawed zombie, hollow-eyed,
You'd grin and bow and nod your pleasant head
With no one guessing you're a suicide.
Don't think that, knowing, any would be grieved
My own experience is, they'd be relieved.