Internal monologue,
to self, a note:
prose and poetry
I wrote
to what I loathe,
every word I chose
a potent seed of
grief I sowed.
Sturdy oak's
branches, limbs,
and stoic bones
turning into woes of
a weeping willow's roots
overgrown and exposed.
Grain of timber groans,
bends and bows
in billowing wind blown;
a coat of leaves
in ribbons, clothes,
cloaking grove and
hanging rope below;
around my neck,
coiled and closed,
asphyxiating, chokes.
Ungasping,
thrashing throes,
no breath can flow,
slowly losing hope;
devoted to
an unspoken oath,
towing this
floating ghost and
shadow of an ego
dangling alone
on threadbare throne,
only home
I've ever known.
So what, to this world,
do i still owe
and why can't I
just
let
go?
I tried to **** myself when I was 9 (tried sticking a paperclip in an electrical socket) but never acknowledged it to myself (or anyone else) as a serious attempt (because l didn't get hurt or anything) until I was about 25 and finally acknowledged it after years of struggling with suicidal thoughts/ideation... I'm doing much better now, but only after things having gotten worse before getting better... I still struggle with the same feelings, but not as often nor as intensely. And to anyone else going thru it, things can (and usually do) change in ways that we can never predict, but if you opt out too soon you won't be around to see it... hang in there, believe it or not things genuinely can get better (even if its just day by day)...