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saranade Aug 2017
I have a heart full of cement
Solid... Permanent
I've sang your lament over and over again
But every song has the same intent
Like something permanent.
I regret not having a patent on your scent,
Or the way your teeth are bent or broken.
Like at some point a decent person
        Had a cruel accident
                 But, against your jaw
..........A fists descent...
...To punish you..........
And forever augment that one percent of you.
I don't know the intent of the event
But, I do know you underwent some hell
To get to me, in our present
But, that doesn't matter my gent
My denouement is becoming distant
         ...you are here...
                      And there you went.
But, our two souls are water and powder
We create cement...
**Permanent
I'll miss you my baby boy
Megan VanKo Jan 2017
The sterile room,
with bleached white walls
and sleeping needles,
ruins lives
and
saves them
with
one injection.
yas Jan 2016
Please help me.
I am trapped in my mind, my pain and my morals.

To Go:
The suffering would end.
A cold needle would not be needed five times a day to relieve the throbbing pain in my arms,
my legs,
my chest,
my fingers,
my heart.
I could rest and sleep and allow my mind to float in the sweet, soft abyss of subconsciousness.
My god, to just sleep peacefully.
I’ve never been an earth woman, but somewhere along the line the smell of freshly cut grass and dirt deep beneath the ground became more alluring than the sterile, overwhelming scent that fills every hallway of this ******* hospital.
The thought of being subject to more years of this endless pain shatters the strings of my heart and makes me want to rip these tubes out of my arms and throw them so deep into the ocean that they float amidst the Titanic’s remains.
Sometimes, in my brief hours of tender rest, I feel myself drifting away, and truth be told I crave those moments.
To feel light, carefree; not dragged down by the weight of carrying death everywhere I go. Everywhere that I can go, that is.
Sickness grips me, snakes around my neck; constricts. Swirls through my ears down to my toes, engulfs me into the shadows. But the darkness is inviting, naughty eyes and tempting smiles.
“You know you want to,” the voices whisper.
“Come with us, be free”
Free.
Floating around the clouds, oh the fresh air that does not reach my lungs anymore. Instead; sterile, clean, hygienic, air, burning my mouth and nose with each breath.
I never thought I would crave the feeling of being *****.
But now, ***** water in the sink after dinner, sneezing children, grimy public park benches; it all just sound so real and full of life.

I was dead a long time ago, so why should my lungs keep breathing?



To Stay:
The angel perched on my left shoulder screams at me. How dare you be so selfish to think of yourself! Think of the family and the kids and work.
To stay means to see sweet, young Joanna graduate, have boyfriends, get married! How could I leave her?
And Peter. Oh Peter, to leave him would be a sin not even the Lord himself has discovered. Maybe I sometimes cannot feel when he kisses my forehead, and maybe I lash out when the pain becomes unbearable, but oh god I love him.
23 years of marriage; 8 of those spent confided to a wheelchair or, better yet, hospital bed.
Little Joanna struggles enough for her innocent mind to fathom that her mother is sick. I doubt that even three oceans of alcohol could bring me to release the words that would break her pure heart, should I choose to end my life.
The devastation of being unable to bring more beautiful lives into this world has been hard enough, and so I cannot imagine leaving my only child on this earth alone.
Morning cuddles with Peter, and Joanna squished in between us would no longer be. This is the only warmth I feel these days. And maybe those small moments of warmth are enough to fight away endless cold.
Oh so patient is Peter. Holds me when I cry, kisses me when I scream at him. To lose him, to give up when we’ve come so far, would be detestable of me.
Joanna is so young.
Wide-eyed and oblivious, she is alive.
She jumps and climbs and cries when she falls but does it all again the next day. I am envious of that. Oh to be young and clueless.
Warmth.
As hard as it gets, the feeling of a heartbeat next to mine and the soft brushing of skin next to one another is enough to keep my faith in life.
Human connection is precious.
Life is precious and I see that in Joanna’s eyes and Peter’s smile and the nurse’s kind hands and my mother’s sad smile and the way the husband of the old woman next door brings her flowers every Tuesday and my gosh, aside from my suffering, the world is beautiful, and perhaps I just forget that when I am blinded by the constant pain.
Maybe, just maybe there is hope for me.

Please help me.
I am trapped in my mind.
Francie Lynch Jul 2015
Bruce,
The first American
To commit euthanasia
In the media,
And later,
Be interviewed.
Please don't get me wrong, I admire Caitlyn for her tenacity and self-assurance. I see it as a mercy killing of the man Bruce, for Caitlyn's happiness. Eh, works for me.
Francie Lynch Jul 2015
Comparatively speaking,
It's grand to live
In Canada.
It's as free as one can get,
Comparatively.
We have one hundred percent
Control over our destiny
And our bodies:
That is,
Until we near the end.
Then,
Our government decides
How we die.
I suspect they want to know
That I'm one hundred percent
Disposed and dispossessed.
Vote "YES" for doctor assisted suicide.
Brother Jimmy Jan 2015
Spinning and spinning
Six little circles
Flushing a life down the drain

Naught but a smidgen of straining, my pidgeon,
A blurr to the vision, euphoric, no pain    

My brain,
Will just shut down
I’ll get
Out of this town
The rain
Gonna pour down and wash me away

Whirling and twirling
My heart in the middle
Graphing the pathway to get the right spin
Crisp calculation, the subtle equation
Causing elation, at last cashing-in

Your brain,
Will just shut down
You'll get
Out of this town
The rain
Gonna pour down and wash you away
  
You must be THIS tall to ride this ride
It’s your human RIGHT to a nice
     suicide
This celestial plane, ...and all of it’s
     strife
We can help you jump past it,
It’s YOUR ******* life!
It’s all in your hands.
You know what to do.
Now is the time
To become the late YOU

Your brain
Will just shut down
You'll get
Out of this town
The rain
Gonna pour down and wash you away
  

My paradigm’s shifting
The veil is lifting
What was I thinking
My heart rate is sinking
And something is stinking
My consciousness shrinking
And what is that ringing
Do I hear choirs singing?
-
Julijonas
Fancy yourself the angel-reaper?
Julijonas Urbonas
Aren't you your brother’s keeper?

Is this just a "what-if", ...for fun?

O Julijonas
Julijonas Urbonas

…What have you done?
Song written upon reading about the death coaster, designed by Mr. Urbonas.
Jeff Holland Jan 2015
We face death as we know,
Written in facets of stone under our feet,
we have built or own demise
, the weight of ourselves holding
us to that blue undertow,
as we sink into our black euthanasia.
Jess Nov 2014
Drink the stars.*

Consume them and let them course through your bloodcurrent,
Carrying the fluorescence to your furthest capillaries.
You will see glowing veins scintillate beneath your skin,
As if a thousand cracks are forming on your body--
Allowing the pureness and beauty of your bright soul
To escape its host.
Life's a Beach Sep 2014
If I gave a knife and asked you to take the tip
and run it's icy breath across my face
Would you do it?

If I danced across a burning flame
and asked you to step into the light
Would you question it?

And If I looked to you in an hour of need
My skin pulled paper taught
and a look of wordless want across
the sand dunes of my face

Would you help me do it?

For perhaps a deeper need is not within the things
we would or wouldn't do, but in the things we share.

You needn't take the knife
You do not need to watch me burn
You do not have to help me die

But if I ever turn to you and ask of you a sin
I ask, if you cannot, that you quietly still keep me in your mind.

Longing
Dancing
Dying

My wrinkled hand scorching a single
frozen sandprint in your palm
as I drift away for one last time
Still whole whilst I'm within you
Becca Kinsey Jul 2014
A sandpaper tongue
Brushed across my skin
One last time.
That alone was worth
The 850 dollars it cost
To say goodbye.
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