Three teens sit in a lightless room.
The **** 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 ****, 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.

I watch the waves crash against a black and white shore.
I feel the grit of colorless sand on my feet.
Under the Boardwalk I spot an eyesore.
I see a man curled up, shivering in a raggedy sheet.

I rise so I can speak to this pitiful man
But Walking in dullness feels like an eternity.
I said, where will you go? Do you have a plan?
He let out a little sigh and turned to me.
He said well brother, I have a short life span.
I'm cold and alone, look around there's no color to see!

I notice he is leaking blood. Redness  drips on the grey sand.
I say should I phone a doctors this looks bad!
He says no, just grab my hand
I bleed for you! So just be glad.

Why bleed for a man that you do not know?
Well brother I can see the sorrow in your soul.
You've been here too long and you have to go.
Your heart has turned as black as coal.
But there's more to see, you have more to grow.
You wither as you watch the grey waves roll.
So I give you this redness just so you know;
that there's still color in this world as you stroll.

Lock up your kids and hide your wife
If you wish them to have another day of life.
Dawning upon us are times of strife, Where you'll need more protection than pocket knife.
The death knell rings  
The whole country can hear it's ding.
The fat lady begins to sing.
How long until society collapses?
How long before plague  and anarchy relapses?
The spirit of chaos sharpens its blade, preparing to see the strong survive and the weak fade.

Hadn't seen my brother in awhile, I wondered if he’d 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.

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

Some people are too quick to tell you that you're being a ****.
Meanwhile, there are others who are way too polite to even think of mentioning it.
If you're the type to give a ****,
then this could be a real problem.

People tend to ask too much of me
Because they know I am willing to give them everything I have

It's such an easy way to get mistreated, manipulated, and taken advantage of

But I will never stop giving all I have, especially to the people that deserve it and even to the people that don't

The happiness of others is way more important than any amount of money, time, or sleep

So let me pay for the little things you want
Let me be late to work so I can spend 10 minutes kissing you goodbye
And let me wake up to answer your phone calls at 4 am when you can't sleep

I will always cross oceans for the people I care about
Whether or not they would cross a puddle for me

I just hope that one day
Someone will return the favor

"It's awfully hard to lead when your veins are full of lead,"
I said.
"At least, that's what I've read."

"You read too much then," she said,
then dove off the deep end like some kind of bird.  

I'm having trouble with compiling a digest of everything I've ever heard.
Which is to say, I find it all hard to digest.

Converse with one to get some kind of outlook,
only to desert those notions for the exact converse.

The answer's buried somewhere in a desert, underneath a billion minute grains of other answers,
but the words still flow like leaves in water,
and every minute of it just leaves me feeling number.

If luck be a lady, then I've got her number,
but who be the drawer?
And which drawer did I file it under?

They come in the night,
running down moonbeams,
and I hear them,
laughing,
shadows playing hide and seek
or tag…
maybe jumping rope…
I don’t know.
I run to the window,
I try to see,
But they’re gone again,
around the corner, behind a bush
out of sight from me.
I leave my warm bed,
and open my door to the cold, night wind
but it carries them away,
and now they cry, as do I.
Each night they come,
each night I seek them out,
each night since they hide,
from me, and why not?
I took them to this place,
the playground of the ******,
cold and dark and alone
with no loving hand to tuck them in,
or the warmth of their mother’s arms.
I was God that day, to them.
Old testament , raining fire
taking the first born child…
and the second as well..
and brought Hell to the Earth
on one sunny afternoon.
Again, I hear them
just out of sight,
running, laughing without joy,
pointing at me,
and asking “Why?”
I have no answer to that,
I only know the “Who”,
But they know that.
At the end for me,
I hope to see them again,
this time to hold them close,
and explain the sins of men,
and tuck them into bed, to sleep.

The Homecoming

The sun warms the back of her neck,
as she walks along the dusty road,
and sees the path to the river,
overgrown now,
but still clear enough in its track
to show the way.
She pushes the hair away from her face,
grayer now then before,
and she stills her heart, her breath,
                        listening to the wind.
Staring at the break in the trees
where the track once led,
she faintly hears the cries of children,
leaping into cool waters,
laughing at the shock of it
wiping away the dust and sweat
and the heat of summer.
All those boys, her brothers,
and a friend or two,
teasing.. trying to leave her behind,
but in the end a hand grasped hers,
and tag along she did….
her brothers smiling at the fun of it all,
her smiling back,
safe in the knowledge of their love.
All those days and summers,
one year blurring into the next
and they all thought it was forever.
But then the letters came,
all those boys were called and left
and she was truly alone,
this time the game for real,
but she waited…
…alone…
for their return.
But never again did she see those boys of summer,
and walk the path to the river
or feel it’s cool embrace.
She remembered now,
tossing dirt and flowers on their graves,
as one by one they came home,
and this time the hand that grasped her own,
was the lifeless grip of her Father,
all the smile gone from his face,
the light gone from his eyes.
She cried then and cries now,
as she turns and walks back to the farm,
empty now but for the memories inside.
She looks at the sign, “For Sale”,
as she drives away,
ready to fly to the far place she ran,
to forget….
.. she shivers in the sun,
cold now with the arms of the dead
embracing her.
She cries to herself, inside,
as she’s done all these years,
and thinks of the river.
                                              JC 2009