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Jade May 2021
⚠️Trigger Warning: the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide and death⚠️

When a person dies
of a physical illness,
you mourn them.

When a person commits suicide,
you assassinate their character
and call them
selfish

because their death is a result
of a self-inflicted action.

Because they chose to die,
right?

Because they not only chose  
to destroy themselves,
but the lives of their family and friends,
right?

But
just as a physical illness
turns the cells against the body,

a mental illness
turns the mind against
itself,
convinces it that
death
is the only option.

What you don't understand
is that the person isn't our
killer--

depression is.
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Jade Apr 2021
⚠️Trigger Warning: the Following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm and suicide. ⚠️
~
This piece is an emulation of Aesop's fable "The Boy Who Cried Wolf". Any similarities, as a result, are purely intentional, and I am thus giving credit where credit is due.
~
There once was a girl
who cut herself,
a plan by which she could get
a little company
and
some excitement.

(Or so it was presumed)

She rushed out from the
school washroom
after tearing herself open
and called out,
"suicide, suicide!”

And her teachers and classmates
came out to meet her,
and some of them stopped
with her for a considerable time.

This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help.


This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help.



This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help—

But instead of
trying to understand
the chronic illness
that plagued her,

they resorted to an archaic stigma
to inform their judgments
on the subject of mental illness.

They believed
that she only bled
to receive attention,
and was therefore named
The Girl Who Cried Suicide
after The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

Eventually,
she wasn't allowed
to use the school washroom
at all anymore

even if she had to
take a ******* ****

cuz
it would only encourage

"maladaptive
attention
seeking
behaviours.”

Despite them never
saying this to her face,
the girl was not
stupid

and

discovered

the defamations
that had fallen from the
tongues of these
black sheep.

The Girl was so
profoundly hurt
by this betrayal

that a few years
afterwards,
as she attempted
to bleed herself dry
in the bathtub
at 3 Am
on a stormy
May 30th,

she dared not
tell a soul

for she knew
they would think
this to be an act
of deceit

a freak show
she put on just
for the ******
hell of it—

crowned

liar

in some sick,
crimson pageant.

But this was not
a game of
make-believe


no—

the wolves
had always been
there

rabid

&

howling

to the blood moon
of her mind's eye

every beautiful thought

disembowelled

the fabric of her sanity
torn from her skull

(And the veins torn from her flesh)

the wolves’ cry
a siren song

leading the lamb
to her slaughter.

~
Don’t you understand?

I am not playing dress-up

I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing
I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing
I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing

I  am

the lamb to this slaughter
~
Tell me

If it was all just for

*******

attention,

then why did I feel the need

to hide my cuts
with long-sleeved shirts

during gym class

in the summer?

Why did I start
cutting in places
Where no one would ever
think
of looking?

Why did I tell everyone I
stopped
when I hadn’t?

~
Did you really care about me?

Or did you care about
What would happen to
You
if the liability killed herself?
~
You cut me in ways
a razor
never could.
~
How could you
How could you
How could you
~
Honestly?

Go **** yourselves,
You uneducated
*****
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Leah Carr Jan 2021
I'm trying so hard
Fighting every single day
The light of achievement briefly glimmers
Before your words ****** it away

Just because you don't see it
Doesn't mean it isn't there
The tear streaks and the blood stains
On the clothes I used to wear

No, I haven't cleaned my room
No, my homework isn't finished
But that is not a reason for
My efforts to be diminished

'Cause every second of every day
There's a battle inside my head
One voice desperate to survive
The others wishing we were dead

The psychosis, abuse, depression
I fight through it every day
And whenever it starts to break me
I'll just find a different way

Standing tall all the while
Putting on a brave face
Yet behind those eyes I'm wishing
That I could leave this place

So please just give me credit
Take off the chains and set me free
Know I'm not just standing in the rain
I'm sinking in the sea
Leah Carr Nov 2020
Everyone who sees me wears a patronising smile
Pity is written is their wide, staring eyes
I move towards them and they step far out of the way
As I move past them, they apologise for nothing at all
They constantly offer to help me like they never did before this
Young children look inquisitively at me, unsure what to think
People alert their family members to move out the way
People complain and cast glances if I'm going slower than they are
But worst, worst of all
They point.
Not cruelly
Not from spite
But they point
They point me out to their friends and family
Remind them to give me space
It makes me feel so alienated
I try to smile at them
I try to show them that I'm a human being too
But it doesn't seem that way
For the past month I have been unable to walk so I am using a wheelchair to get around. This poem is about the stigma and "special treatment" I get and how it makes me feel. Please don't treat people in chairs any differently - better or worse than able-bodied people.
Mia Mehnaz Nov 2020
Suicide; society tells me it’s a ***** word

Blackens your tongue and brands you an

Outsider to your beloved community;

Tarnishes your dazzling reputation and

Takes a beautiful, cherished, short-lived, soul.

But why did society not raise me like the

Painstakingly adored roses amongst

Its garden of thorns; why can’t I be

That happy girl. Why have I been

Doused in fertiliser, a wretched ****

Amongst a garden of beauty, growing

Faster than lightning, roots of gnarly

Agony and shoots of grey, blurred hatred for

Every atom of my being- screams for the ****

Killer to embrace me by the neck, apply a-

Seductive dose of love-dripping pressure

And set this crow free; unchain my bruised wings

And I promise I will leave you be, I will never

Bring misery or misfortune again.

But suicide; is a ***** word, a cheek

Burning, soul smouldering, darkening

Shadow on the pretty plastic cases over our,

Mechanical hearts. Not for the great pain of

Losing a barely, blossomed flower- took one

Heavy dose of white-pain sunlight and

Wilted away into the black, bottomless soil.

Not for the gaping loss of a singular

Fertile crop in an endless year of draught and

Famine. Suicide, is not a tear-wrenching,

Palm-sweating word for the, heavy and huge hole

It leaves in society’s newly plastered walls-

But it is an unspeakable word for the pure

Shame. The surly shadow of unspeakable

Shame that it leaves like a, stain of red wine

On the pretty, sensible woman’s white blouse

Like a ****** tattoo on the arm of an infant.

We do not grieve their death. We grieve our pride,

Our bruised and bleeding pride at not preventing

The stench of failure as a race of people, in the death

Of one melancholy drowned person, we practically

Placed the boulders in their pockets and said drown.

And I am holding my breath; tight roping this

Misery that smothers me at sunrise, see I am

Permitted a feigned slumber of peace in the dead

Hours of night yet I awake to the,

Asphyxiation of pain, eyes bulging in terror of

What awaits me when I run out of time, oxygen fast-

Fading and the orange, pink of dawn lights a

Fire in the honey pools of my eyes- small, mocking fires

That sneer at my desperation to cease, at my plea for peace-

Tight, burning stabs that tingle in my throat and

I’m running low on air, on time, almost there-

Deliria, ecstasy, glee dripping from my limbs

And- the noose I fabricated in my non-

Functioning, disabled mind slips away, faster

Than I can catch it and refasten, and I am, cold

In my bedsheets once more. Welcomed again,

To the now bellowing daylight of, depression

Another flightless, fruitless day of carefully,

Hand-stitched smiles and sinfully pre-tuned

Laughter. The world tells me to stand on the

Pinnacle of misery with one broken leg and

If I dare fall, I am a branded shame on the surface

Of the earth, I am the centre of all failure in the

Universe so I, valiantly ride into no-mans-land,

A knight in shining armour except, I have no steel

And no bronze to, protect my heart from the cannon fire

Of pain, I have no shield to shelter me from the

Poison gas of self-hatred. But I am perfectly okay being

Defenceless in the brazen gunfire; I am still breathing,

The titanium arrows of misery protruding neatly from

My mangled limbs and my broken heart.

And that word, sombre and dark as ever

Flashes once in my head and I swat it away with

Deep-rooted disgust, and a dire hunger for such a desire.

Suicide;

Society tells me it’s a ***** word.
Possibly the first time i've ever written explicitly about this particular, raw and deeply personal topic.I always seem to skim stones and step over pebbles when integrating this into my poetry. But at 5:12am today I said, **** it, the world needs to hear this.
I won't say goodbye to you
Because I can't

You are part of my chemical make up

We are eternally bonded

I won't say goodbye to you

Instead I will make room for you

I am not ashamed of you

I won't let the stigma win

Bipolar, come and take a seat

We might as well be friends
I make friends with my crazy..
R Sep 2020
What is it to be a wild child?
Is it staying out even after the stars have taken over the sky?
Is it having a mouth of a sailor?
Or drinking like a pirate?
And loving American pie?

What does the world see as wild?
What does it mean to be wild?
Are actions which are reckless only considered free and fly?

Breaking stigmas is what all of us want to do,
But how much are we doing it?
And how much are we just following the hype?

I’ll take a penny for my thoughts,
Not a glass of wine.
How can anyone be considered wild until what they are doing is coming out from their own minds,
Mild down your thoughts they say,
But I try not to let it affect my choice.

Why bother fitting in?
When you can be a book,
They have a hard time defying.

What if we all become our own books..
Then maybe all of us will truly become wild,
And not just followers of the given hype
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
Tried to explain my psyche via Charles Bukowski.
Penned a list that included being up all night,
plus the lack of humanity endured while working.
But concluded the result was mere petulance -
probably because my next mood sank deeper.

This country has a sickness that shackles
the joys of life. Felt its hands strangle me.
Fingerprints are still molded in my clay brain.
Words reach me from below Finnish lakes,
countryside estates and snapped smiling faces.

Can't explain the stories I've been told,
only share what it means to lose all hope.
Could disguise this inside a metaphor
but for what? In order to see the light,
we must shine it on every naked limb.

Hopelessness, then, is searching for that
very word on Google as your love sleeps.
Feeling your heart rejoice and concave
simultaneously when the text describes
everything you've kept inside for x days.

Sometimes in the lonely dead of night.
Sometimes noon stays by your side.
Energy burns that a good run can't fix.
After splitting living rooms, its the wrist.
Tough to admit but these thoughts exist.

Now you know all this, please forgive me
should I despair when hearing it repeated.
Or write this down when nothing is hinted.
If this triggers problems deeper-rooted...

I'll delete it.
Poem #26 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. There's a lot of dark subject matter in this poem but I feel like it needs to be expressed otherwise we won't fix the problem of suicide.
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