I refuse,
After all I have survived...
My own mind.
I refuse,
To be slain by a fucking liquid,
In a glass.
I am spitting in the face of death and screaming,
I refuse.

It's easy to say,
You're a "good" father.
Much harder yet,
To prove it.
Mine never failed.
Fuck a mailman,
Rain, sleet or snow?
Drive one hundred and fifty miles,
With the flu,
And talk to me of loyalty,
Of dedication.

Who would have thought,
How merciless a beast we could create.
The weapons are scary,
But damn if that ring doesn't terrify.
Who's sighing?
Who's crying?
Who's dead?
At least you can be certain,
Of what's at the bottom of a barrel.
You never know,
Who or what,
Is at the end of the telephone.

  Mar 2017 Jacob Christopher

Hadn't seen my brother in awhile, I began to fear he did something risky.
Instead I found him at home sitting alone drowning in swigs of whiskey.
The dark living room became his cave.
The couch acted as his grave.
How  strange it is to see a man become a bottles slave.
Has Bourbon withered him away until there's nothing  left to save?

Much time has passed since we roamed the woods and strolled along the creek.
Now it seems the creek has dried, the trees have died, and the forest looks bleak.
But somewhere out in the cornfield I can still here him speak.
Corn, the original form of the poison that makes him weak.

  Mar 2017 Jacob Christopher

I walk hand in hand with corpses,
And the streets we walk are morbid.
Roads lined with scorching torches,
And riddled with their organs.
Streets oh so solemn and sordid.

Skeletons stroll freely among me,
Blissfulness, they've taken from me.
They say "Hey, I'm sorry sonny,  
But life ain't always sunny."
So we walk together glumly.

The sky's are gray where we wander
And  the landscape is somber.
Nothing but endless time to ponder,
The endless days we have to squander

  Feb 2017 Jacob Christopher

Sunny days, butterflies, and her long eye lashes.
Stormy clouds, hornets, and her self inflicted gashes.

  Feb 2017 Jacob Christopher

Three teens sit in a lightless room.
The weed smoke mixes with the incense,
And births a pungent smell.
The television flashes in the dark.
They stare blankly into its screen, afraid to think.
No exchange of words, after all what would they say?
"Hey buddy! How many times have you wanted to end it this week?!"
Or maybe, "Hi Pal! Could you spare a Xanax?"
These are the suicide kids; life means nothing to them.
They wander emotionlessly through school hallways
And work minimum wage jobs with displeasure.
They don't smoke for fun, they smoke to numb.
The prospect of death is comforting to them.
Maybe then they could be alone without demons running rampant.
So they sit amongst each other in lifeless rooms.
With lifeless people, in lifeless towns.
To them, Suicide is like a passing wind.
Not even a seconds thought for their rotting peers,
They understand. They know this life is heavy.,
And sometimes one just can't take the weight. So they make it end.
With pills and bullets. With Ropes and razors. They make it end.
Soon they'll have to pick a career and start a "life."
They chuckle sorrowfully at this prospect,
What life will find them here in this shattered country?
The heat is rising and they KNOW it.
The water is drying and they KNOW it.
The trees are dying and they KNOW it.
They're slaves. And they KNOW it.
It is this knowing that brings them their pain
And brings along thoughts of nooses and slashed wrists.

One of them turns to the other and says "Yo pass me the bong, man."
He slides the glass across the table in front of them.
Careful not to make eye contact,
That might spark conversation.
The incense smoke twirls in the air.
The TV flickers, and day turns to night.
The youngest of the three teens says farewell and walks home glumly,
A noose awaits him.

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