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Jesse Sutherland Apr 2021
Why do we insist on
Poisoning ourselves with
Late night talks
From the past
With people we used to love
Or who have long since passed?
Even in smiles
We can still look back
And in the midst of looking
We can lose ourselves in that.

No matter if the situation
Was clearly toxic
No matter if we've long been over
All that has escaped us
No matter if you've forgotten what
It feels like to hold them
Or what their voice sounds like.
There is always some fascination with
What your life used to be like
And who kept you company
In life's darkest caverns.
I invite you and I to toss the poison. Live for those who keep us close today
Jesse Sutherland Apr 2021
Do you ever get deathly afraid
of your heart exploding?
Maybe you haven't felt like yourself
and you worry maybe you're nearing your end.
You sit up at night thinking about
this phantom illness that chills you.
You crank the heat, but you shiver in fear
at the thought of leaving this world.
In times of sadness, you thought
it might be okay to be dead.
That in comparison to the suffering
darkness would make it all okay.
But as you think this sudden change
could by some percentile mean your death.
You long for all the years ahead of you
and shed tears for your children you'll never meet.
You cry in terror until finally spared by sleep,
and maybe feel better when you awake.
You may even get some long-term relief
by way of some doctor assuring you that you're fine.
But it will only be a matter of time
before your anxiety convinces you yet again
that you are not long for this world.
And you feel stupid
for essentially worrying over nothing.
But you do hope with all of your being
in spite of past suicidal thoughts
in spite of the heartache you've experienced...

You hope with all of your being
that you might just manage to live a long, happy life.
We are all just ticking time bombs. All we can do is hope our timer is a long one.
Jesse Sutherland Apr 2021
Creativity is grieved over.
When it leaves, your nostalgia blossoms
An old friend that you lost before its time
You weep at its funeral
Your tears burn your cheeks
With desires of what could have been.
Perhaps it died in a car accident
A violent, fiery wreck of destruction
Maybe it died in its sleep
You never did get a chance to say goodbye
Or you could have lost it in time
Watched it wither away
Like the memories you used to hold so dear.
Crying yourself to sleep, you yearn for your creativity.

The beauty, or perhaps the horror of this death
Lies in the fact that it could return.
After bargaining with Death
Death will return your creativity to you
Like some undead zombie
Or like the second coming of some benevolent angel.
And you will welcome creativity with open arms
You will hug it close, and promise that you will watch it closely.
You will assure it that you won't let it slip through your grasp.
You pick up that pen, stroke those keys
And let your friend spill out all over the pages.
But just as with people, the death of creativity is inevitable
And before long, it will leave you bleeding yet again
Only to return to you as though it never left.
I've been gone too long...
Jesse Sutherland Mar 2019
Is it really so bad
to think that maybe
the nothingness that is assumed
at the end of the road
is actually a light
a continuation of your dreams
without all the screams
without bursting at your seams
where you can rest but still float
in a calming boat
a soul in a stream
your life a vivid beam
at the end of all heartache
comes a wave of new odysseys
not even one
that is described by
the hateful religious
but perhaps at least something
something outside of nothing
somewhere to run free
somewhere to be comforted
a land where you can see
enlightenment and glee
learning life's key.
It would be nice
but I get the idea
that the only reason
people even believe in
somewhere after the end
is because we are all terrified
of the black
the dark
the cold embrace
at death's door
the ceasing of all awareness
and maybe the thought
that our life was meaningless
in the grand scheme of things
even though that is probably true
and I am kind of okay
with that
part of me is still hoping
for somewhere for my soul to go
after this hell we call
The grip of thanatophobia brings us together.
Jesse Sutherland Mar 2019
Did I wake up this morning?
Am I walking in an endless nightmare?
A confined circle of my own
mental construction
of which I am stabbed
by this fear of the unknown.
When in reality
existence is the unknown.
Did I wake up this morning?

Cup of coffee, empty in minutes.
Breakfast devoured
drive to work finished.
Is my inner self
as empty as my cup?
My plate?
My drive?
One foot in front of the other
Walking towards ceasing
Until then, an endless cycle
a nightmare of failure.
Broken up with the numbing.
Did I wake up this morning?

Am I a dull boy?
Is it because the bonds that
actually remind me of worth
are slowly broken by this
pointless endless stream of earning
of learning?
That's what They say.
But what am I truly discovering?
Enlightenment is nowhere in sight.
In its place, a puddle of mediocrity;
of this monotone routine.
A cage.
Is this my own, subtle hell?
Have I been bad?
Did I wake up this morning?

It always crosses my mind
that maybe I haven't ended it all
simply because I am truly
afraid of the nothingness.
The true breaking of the routine.
That I am more afraid of that
than the normality in this emptiness.
Is it because deep down
like the others
I believe that maybe
there is something to hold on to?
Did I wake up this morning?

Part of me is okay
with the idea
of this being a sort of subtle hell.
Because in the depths
of this emotional abyss
I find solace in love.
The burning empathy I have
for all life.
And most of all
for my family.
My friends.
My lover.
These people are
those that throw me a rope
and at least temporarily
dig me out of this
mental nightmare.
And if this temporary bliss
they give me in this
infinite insanity
despite perhaps them not existing at all
isn't what being alive feels like,
maybe I am okay with being dead.
Of existing in this looping dream
inside my head.
Did I wake up this morning?
Perhaps I don't care.
I'm back. I brought some darkness with me. Hope you don't mind.
Jesse Sutherland Aug 2018
I miss you
More than honestly I ever thought I would
I remember the nights like they were yesterday
And I wish they were
I remember when we’d speed down the street
Brown, paper bags in our laps
The distinct smell of a good burger
Draping the air as we headed into the sunset
We’d stop and get a movie
Something cheesy, stupid looking
We’d want something to laugh at
Through our unconventional humor
And we’d drink away our troubles
Maybe that’s where we went wrong
But I still remember you, brother
In the place that you belong.

You left one day, to pursue the ocean
I smiled because you would no longer
Be so lonely.
I was the only thing you had here.
On the beach, you’d have family
You’d have people
To make you not feel so empty
And you could carry a case
Of that stout you liked so much
And drink it as the waves
Washed away your troubles.
I hoped luck might find you
But she’s a two-faced dancer
Where did things go wrong?
I wish I had the answer.

Instead of luck
Dancing with you
Maybe making some love
With your lonely heart
She bit your neck
Until you bled out onto that
Cheap carpet in your
Apartment bedroom
And the loneliness and the depression
All came out with the drugs
And when I got that call
About my friend
Who despite me not getting around
To calling in a few months
Considered me close enough
To have as his emergency contact
Died one morning
How he felt such pain in his heart
He decided to blow it up
Explode the pain and alcoholism
Until the pages of those comics we’d read
Were stained in a coat of tears
That I’d cry from grief.

I kept wanting to write you
Some kind of letter
Even though I knew you’d never get it
I typed and erased so many texts
My fingers got tired
And my brain weakened
From this new found pain that I had never felt
Losing you has made my soul melt
And the only thing I hope
Is that somewhere you are out there
In the afterlife I don’t believe in
Drinking your ale
With the last sunset we never watched.
Jesse Sutherland Aug 2018
In vacant masks
We hide the veins
Where the sickly blood
Flows within us
Like a raging, hidden
Flame divided
Beneath a blanket
Of expectations
Of lacerations
Of blocked
Methods of filth

Where we can act
As though we are better
When someone leaves
Or mistreats
Or walks away
Or makes them pay
We sit with our hands
Together like some morbid
Altar boy drunk on
Some misconceived
Notion that we are
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