Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mihle Mdashe Feb 9
I've written 4 suicide letters, each one better than the last. I'd thought I'd mastered the art of saying goodbye through a piece of page. Nothing can compare to the last one I wrote, so poetic; I knew I couldn't use my previous ones cause if I did no one would see there was at least something that came out of my depression. In and out of psychologists rooms - I swear this is exhausting, but ma wants me to get better. I laugh at her cause better is only like my father's presence; it ain't there. Suicide letter number 4 had me believing for sure I wouldn't make it out alive, there was just something about the way I had stalked all those words in the dictionary, I put some light in there hoping I'd see the same light when I'd finally come to rest. But I couldn't, if I could I would; overdosing, drowning, popping a vein, all that and I couldn't do it. There's something in the way nurses look at me that make me despise hospitals, I hate the sympathy on their faces and mostly I hate them for having that motherly affection. Ain't nothing worse than doctors telling you to rest when the only rest you need would've been death. You see what I feel is a type of tired that sleep can't fix, or maybe sleep 6ft under would fix it, I don't know honestly.
Bring to me your broken down
Your rattling and cracked
Send me all your fractured hearts
The pains; the sprains and smarts

Deliver to me your wounded
Your tortured mentally alone
Pass to me your elderly infirm
The babies born before their term

Rush to me your weak of will
Your dependant; addicted and lost
Blow to me those down on their knees
The drunk. Morose. Self-inflicted injuries

Laugh with me at human things
Your odd accidents and stories
Triage with me as I tend the wound
Make you better than the you I found

Present to me your desperate
Your shattered and your morbid
Breathe with me as surgery makes well
Exhale! On my skill your fate befell

Lay on me your one in three
Your canker’d and your wretched
Move to me those at end of time
When curtain falls on final pantomime

Please bear with me when times get hard
When I slip up and make odd mistake
Pray for me at seventy. No dotage; still I strive
So proud to play my part in keeping you alive

Raise thanks with me for visionary
My creator; father Aneurin Bevan
Have patience with me when I seem slow
Many patients to see in daily ebb and flow.

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
In honour of our National Health Service (NHS) in it's 70th year.
Terry Collett Jul 2017
When shall we
three meet again?  
Maggie said,
sitting in the bath,
sensing the hot water
about her limbs.

The two nurses,
one large, blonde haired,
the other tall and slim,
looking scared, did not reply,
but stood either side
of the woman, criminality insane,
watching her every move.

When shall we meet again?  
Maggie repeated, eyeing
the red soap, brushing
her lips again the red,
remembering Jamie
her lost lover, whom
she murdered, now dead.
At woman in an asylum.
James Cumberland Feb 2017
"We are the witnesses to how alike all men bleed."*
Man our easel, we stretch clean canvas over scarlet brushstrokes,
We work stitchings like guitar strings,
find a melody in the mending,
hide scars like bass, in clean skin,
and hide the pain from each ending.
Their lungs sing.

An alto for death's row,
its sound makes your heart slow.
Let's see what you have inside,
with open eyes, your mother cried,
in toupe-walled rooms, we cut the cord,
no savage mark by a doctor's sword.

Just silence and sadness,
greyness and madness,
long halls and dancers,
small windows and glances.
Terry Collett Nov 2016
I placed the Camus book
face down on the canteen table

other nurses sat over the way talking
looking at some magazine

smoke rose from a cigarette
put on the side of an ashtray

I sipped my coffee
and looked down
at the bumf on the back cover
of the book
The Outsider
by Albert Camus
and other black print

I felt an outsider
outside the circle
of behind the back talk
the chitchat of this and that

I thought the mentally ill patients
more desirable company
with their smiles
and odd stares
and drooling mouths

I thought about Natanya
the night before
us at it in the bed

she holding me
about the waist
me looking down at her
at her black hair
her eyes gazing

the bed rocking away
she maybe thinking what
her kids might think
might say

a nurse got up
from the table
and laughed about something
then she went on her way
out the door

the other three sat
and talked about her
probably or more likely
Terry Collett Jun 2016
With my hands
I move myself
to the side of the bed,
and stare around
with sightless eyes,
wondering if the nurse
put the commode
near the bed
as she said she would.

I try to balance
on one hand
as I search around
with the other.

The pain
in my leg stumps
nags at me
each time I move.

I touch
the commode arm,
and try and move myself
in a position,
that I may
be able to get
on the commode,
but as I move forward
I fall into darkness,
and hit my head,
and land on my back,
and stare into
a painful blackness.

a voice says,
what are you doing?

I face the voice:
I wanted to get
on the commode,
I say.

You must ask,
the voice says.

I want to be
I say.

Not just yet;
now keep still
while we assess you
for damage,
the voice says.

She calls out for help;
I hear footsteps
running and another
voice says,
what's Grace
doing on the floor?

She was trying to get
on the commode
by herself,
the other voice says.

Shall I call a doctor
to examine her?  

I'm all right,
I say,
nothing broken;
just the usual
pains and aches.

Your head is bleeding,
a voice says;
other voices come.

I lie still
and stare at
the darkness
around me,
attempting to stare
at faces
I cannot see.
Julie Grenness Apr 2016
Hands are for healing,
Alleviating, soothing,
Balms for calming,
Gently restoring,
Curative hands,
From many lands,
To salve and ease,
Free remedies,
Hands for comforting,
Hands are for healing.
Feedback welcome.
Terry Collett Mar 2016
The nurses
must think I’m asleep
because my eyes are closed
but my blind eyes

can see nothing
whether open or closed
I lie thinking
about how I danced

with Clive back in 1939
what will happen
to Grace now?
one nurse says

talking nearby
her leg stumps
are healing now
but whether she'll walk again

depends how she copes
another nurse says
no sight either
how does she

make out that?
the first nurse says
she's still pretty though
no scars or ****** damage

and that gentleman
who visited her
wants to take her
out to dinner when

she is more able
I lie still
pretend I am sleeping
wanting to hear more

my leg stumps throb
and my none
existent feet itch
and I want

to scratched them
but lie still
trying to act
a sleeping beauty

waiting for my prince
to come
her house was bombed
but she was pulled

out alive but her maid
was killed
the nurse says
breaking into my act

the feet itching
the stumps throbbing
my eyes wanting
to see again

the nurses move away
hitting windows
a harsh fall of rain.
Terry Collett Feb 2016
I am lying flat on the bed,
a nurse is rubbing my leg stumps,
her hands are smooth,
fingers skillful.

Another nurse
is beside me;
I  can hear
their conversation
between each other.

She died in the night,
the nurse nearby says,
terrible wounds,
didn't think she
would survive.

I think of Jean
and how she had
just gone off after
our row yesterday.

Her children were dead
at the scene;
the house took a direct hit
in last night's blitz,
the nurse nearby says.

It is tragic children
being killed like that,
the nurse rubbing
my leg stumps says.

I stare at the area
of their voices as if
I could see,
but I see nothing,
darkness where voices
come from.

My hands lie dormant
by my sides.

It is oddly sensual
this rubbing,
painful but sensual,
as if the mixture
of pain and rubbing
combined to make it
seem sensual.

I remember Clive
touching me the last time,
his hands moving
between my legs
and kissing my feet
and even now
I sense his kisses.

The last time
we made love.

There between me
he lay.

Then, he was gone
and died at Dunkirk.

The reality shocks me
and I move,
Steady , Grace,
steady, am I hurting you?
the nurse says,
holding my leg stumps.

I say,
no just a memory.

She rubs again,
the sensuality fighting
with the pain.
When you got home in the early morning hours
You said that you were with someone
I was not mad

When you told me how you met them
You had the night of your life
I was not mad

When you told me that you tried to leave their room
You were begged not to go
I was not mad

When you told me you felt so connected to them
You were their everything
I was not mad

When you told me how you placed your hands on their chest
You told me of the breaths you shared
I was not mad

When you fell into my arms, cried and told me
You had barely saved their life
I was so proud

-For all who have sacrificed for the well being of the unknowns-

-Brian Patrick O'Connor SR.- 2016
Nurses are strong. Read it to the end
Brian O'Connor 2016
Next page