Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
hand slaps shoulder knee rhythmically that’s called hamming the bone sitting on a street curb singing making up lyrics i got a transitor sister loves cossack named jake he rides Cherokee chopper all he’s ever known is hate he’s going down underground where a man can be a man wrestle alligators live off the land ebb flow i don’t know racing chasing hair-pin turning at 150 miles per hour downshift to 3rd spread the word sweet sour naked flower touching skin deep within defies all sin with a grin speed speed speed all i need i’m getting off coming on you tawny scrawny bow-legged pigeon-toed knock-kneed Don Juan Ponce de Leon Aly Khan all wrapped up into one going to have ******* good time good time tonight i feel like an orphan mom and dad seem so far away tonight i feel like an orphan you make me feel this way hand slaps shoulder knee rhythmically hand bone hand bone

Odyseuss drifts job to job construction worker office assistant waiter whatever he does not understand how road to recognition works continues showing portfolio to art dealers but they react indifferently he does not know how to attain notice in art world begins to suspect there is no god watching over souls instead he imagines infinite force juggling light darkness creation destruction love hate Mom and Dad insist he can earn respectable income if only he will learn commodity futures like cousin Chris Mom says you can work down at the exchange and paint on the side a part of Odysseus wants desperately to please his parents he considers perhaps Mom is right for the time being maybe build up nest egg it seems like sensible plan he wonders why Dad and Mom never speak about money how to save manage they treat the subject as forbidden topic Odysseus has no idea what Dad or Mom earn or investment strategies Odysseus is about to make serious mistake the decision to get job working at commodity exchange needs deeper examination why is he giving in to his parents what attracts him to commodities trading is it Chris’s achievement and the money? does Odysseus honestly see himself as a winning trader or does it simply look like big party with lots of rich men pretty young girls is that where he wants to be why is he giving up on his dream to be a great artist does it seem too impossible to reach who makes him think that? is he going to give up on his true self? he halfheartedly follows his parent’s advice begins working as runner at Chicago Mercantile Exchange several friends including Calexpress disloyalty for entering straight world commodity markets are not exactly straight in 1978 clearing firms pay adequately hours are 8 AM to 2 PM over course of next 6 months Odysseus runs orders out to various trading pits cousin Chris rarely acknowledges Odysseus maybe Chris feels need to protect his image of success perhaps in front of his business associates Chris is embarrassed by Odysseus’s menial rank and goof-off attitude maybe Chris senses what a terrible mistake Odysseus has made

Chicago suffers harsh winter in February Roman Polanski skips bail in California flees to France in April President Carter postpones production of neutron bomb which kills people with radiation leaving buildings intact in October Yankees win World Series defeating Dodgers in November Jim Jones leads mass-****** suicide killing 918 people in Jonestown Guyana in December in San Francisco Dianne Feinstein succeeds murdered Mayor George Moscone in Chicago John Wayne Gacy is arrested

darkness descends upon Odysseus his heart is not into commodity business more accurately he hates it he loathes battleship gray color of greed envy he resents prevailing overcast of misogyny he meets many pretty girls yet most of them are only interested in catching a trader it is rumored numerous high rolling traders hire young girls for sole purpose of morning ******* remainder of day girls are free to mingle run trivial errands commodity traders typically trash females it is primitive hierarchy Odysseus bounces from one clearing firm to another then moves to Chicago Options Exchange then Chicago Board of Trade on foyer wall just outside trading floor hangs bronze plaque commemorating all men who served in World War 2 Uncle Karl’s name is on that plaque Daddy Pat bought his son seat hoping to set him up after war Uncle Karl’s new wife wanted to break away from Chicago persuaded him to sell seat move to California Uncle Karl bought car wash outside Los Angeles with Daddy Pat’s support Mom and Dad encourage assure Odysseus commodities business is right choice they promise to buy him full seat on exchange if he continues to learn markets they feel certain he can be saved from his artistic notions the markets are soaring in profits cousin Chris is riding waves a number of Chris’s friends are sons of parents who belong to same clubs dine at same restaurants as Mom and Dad Odysseus is not alpha-male like Chris Odysseus is a dreamer painter poet writer explorer experimenter unlike Chris who has connections Odysseus starts out as runner then gets job holding deck for yuppie brokers in Treasury Dollar trading pit Odysseus holds buy orders between index and middle fingers sell orders in last 2 fingers arranged by time stamp price size in other hand holds nervous pencil he stands step below boss in circular pit in room size of football field full of raised pits everything is traded cattle hogs pork bellies all currencies gold numbers flash change instantaneously in columns on three high walls fourth wall is glass with seats behind for spectators thousands of people rush around delivering orders on telephones flashing hand signals shouting offers quantities every moment every day calls come in frantically from all around world space is organized chaos sometimes not so organized fortunes switch hands in nano-seconds it is global fiscal battleground rallies to up side or breaks to down side send room into hollering pushing shoving hysteria central banks financial institutions kingpin mobsters with political clout daring entrepreneurs old thieves suburban rich kids beautiful people pretty young females abound big guns **** in same air stand next to low-ranking runners everyone flirts sweats sneezes knows inside they are each expendable Odysseus is spellbound by sheer force magnitude he feels immaterial only grip is his success with girls it is not conscious talent he grins girls grin back Chris’s trader friends recognize Odysseus’s ability they push him to introduce girls to them it is way for Odysseus to level playing field he has no money or high opinion of himself he simply knows how to hook up with girls

1979 January Steelers defeat Cowboys at Super Bowl Brenda Ann Spencer kills 2 faculty wounds 8 students responds to incident “i don't like Mondays” in February Khomeini seizes power in Iran in March Voyager space-probe photographs Jupiter’s rings a nuclear power plant accident occurs at Three Mile Island Pennsylvania in May Margaret Thatcher is elected Prime Minister in England in Chicago American Airlines flight 191 crashes killing 273 people in November Iran hostage crisis begins 90 hostages 53 of whom are American in December Soviet Union invades Afghanistan 1980 in November Ronald Reagan defeats Jimmy Carter one year since Iran hostage crisis began

he meets good-looking younger girl named Monica on subway heading home from work he has seen her running orders on trading floor she is tall slender with long dark brown hair in ponytail pointed nose wide mouth innocent face she confides her estranged father is famous Chicago mobster Odysseus recognizes his name they talk about how much they dislike markets arrant disparity of wealth between traders and themselves Odysseus says i hate feeling of being so disposable worthless Monica replies yeah me too he tells her if i was a girl i’d ******* myself to several handsome generous traders Monica acknowledges that’s an interesting idea but who? how? which traders? do you know? he answers yeah i know exactly who and how Monica says if you’re serious i’m in i have a girlfriend named Larissa who might also be interested i’ll call Larissa tonight following day Monica approaches Odysseus at work agrees to meet at his place after markets close that afternoon Monica and Larissa show up eager to learn more about Odysseus’s scheme Larissa is petite built like a gymnast giggly light brown hair younger than Monica he lays it all out for them cousin Chris and his buddies the money ******* both girls are quite lovely he suggests they rehearse with him he will coach them on situations settings techniques girls consent for 4 weeks every afternoon they meet at Odysseus’s place get naked play out different scenarios he shows girls how to pose demure at first then display themselves skillfully fingers delicately pulling open ***** spreading wide apart buns working hidden muscles he directs each to take up numerous positions tasks techniques then has them switch places he teaches them timing starting slow gradually building up rhythms stirring into passionate frenzy having two mouths four hands creates novel sets of possibilities one girl attends his front while other excites his rear he positions them side-by-side so he can penetrate any of all four holes he stacks them one on top of the other many other variations after reaching ****** several times making sure to reciprocally satisfy their eager needs Odysseus dismisses girls until following day finally after month of practice Monica and Larissa feel confident proficient primed Odysseus arranges for girls to meet with 2 traders through Chris most traders have nicknames Twist who is hosting event is notoriously wild insatiable on opening night Odysseus behaves like concerned father Larissa and Monica each bring several dresses and pairs of shoes Odysseus helps them choose suggests Monica ease up on make-up he styles Larissa’s hair instructs Monica to call him when they arrive again when they leave he requests they return directly to his place Monica wears hair pulled back in French twist pearl earrings sleek little black dress black stiletto heels she stands several inches above Odysseus Larissa wears braided pigtails pink low-scooped leotard brown plaid wool kilt just above knees brown suede cowboy boots he kisses each on lips then pats their butts warns them to be careful mindful Monica winks Larissa giggles more than an hour passes as Odysseus sits wondering why he has not heard from girls suddenly reality hits he does not want to be commodities trader and certainly not a **** this is not how he wants to be known or remembered Odysseus wants to be a painter and writer Monica and Larissa are good sweet girls whom he has misguided he calls Twist’s place Twist answers Odysseus asks to speak with Monica when she comes to phone he questions are you all right Monica answers yes we’re fine we’re having a fantastic time why are you calling what’s wrong he explains you were suppose to call me when you arrived i began to worry i think maybe this whole arrangement is a bad idea i want you to call it off and come back home i don’t want either of you to become prostitutes i love you both and don’t want to be associated with dishonoring you Monica says it’s a little late to call it off but we’ll see you when we’re done kissy kiss bye Odys another hour passes then another he frets wondering what they are doing after 4 hours as he is about to call Twist’s house again doorbell rings Monica and Larissa both giggling beaming Odysseus can spot they have a coke buzz Monica announces you should be proud of us Odys we got each of them off 2 times we left them stone-numb and tapped out the girls open their purses each slaps 5 hundred dollar bills unto table Monica says this is your cut Odys we both got a thousand for ourselves he replies i can’t touch that money we need to sit down and talk Monica demands no talking Odys take off your clothes he insists i’m serious Monica i’m never going to send you out again Larissa claims there’s no turning back for me i had too much fun Monica  pleads come on Odys we’ll be good we promise now take off your clothes Twist and his buddy never attended to our needs i’m ***** as hell Larissa where’s that little bottle of dust Twisty handed you

Chicago Monday night December 8 1980 Cal and Odysseus sit at North End they're on 4th round feeling buzz the place is lively adorned with holiday decorations Cal says you’ve changed Odysseus questions what do you mean? how? Cal says the commodity markets and your cousin and his friends they’ve changed you when was the last time you painted Odys? are you dealing coke Odysseus looks Cal in the eyes answers they’re so ******* rich Cal you can’t believe it one drives a black Corvette Stingray another a ******* Delorean anything they want they buy girls cars clothes condos boats yeah i’m dealing coke to Chris’s friends it’s my only leverage remember the Columbian dude Armando we met at tittie bar? i score from him and keep it clean Chris’s buddies pay up for the quality i don’t remember my last painting maybe the black painting i never finished after breaking up with Reiko Lee a girl falls off bar stool crashing to floor at other end of bar Cal says Odys, you better play it careful you’re messing with the devil got any blow on you suddenly bar grows quiet someone turns up TV volume they watch overhead as news anchorman speaks slow solemn camera pans splattered puddle of blood pieces of broken glass on steps to Dakota Building Cal looks to Odysseus John Lennon has been murdered Cal waits for Odysseus to say something tear rolls down cheek Cal glances away stares down at floor they drink in silence
JJ Hutton Mar 2013
Evangeline (is that what you want me to call you?),

While I hope you don't have to use it, attached is my edit of your suicide note. I just tweaked the grammar on a couple sentences and uncapitalized a random "E." Might consider being more specific. It's hard to tell who is to blame, if you're looking to blame someone. The verbs are very passive. Makes your end seem like a commercial break. Just a suggestion.

Love or a near synonym,
Josh
anonymous Nov 2015
I can’t listen.
My mind is a prison.
Tears fall down my cheek.

My confidence weak.
No appetite to eat.
Thoughts race and prevent me from sleep.

Bags under my eyes.
Whats that in the sky?
They tell me its just a phase.

ADD isn’t real.
Why is this such a big deal?
Little do they know it ruins my days.

Can’t focus in class.
Teachers think its a load of crap.
No one understands that this isn’t okay.

I try so hard.
I studied all night!
But I always seem to fail.

Look at my medication.
Look up the facts.
When will they realize ADHD is real.

Reality and daydreams.
Which one is real?
Which is more important;
The lesson in class, or the color of my nails?

My confidence; frail
My complexion; pale
My mind?
A jail.

But I put on a smile.
Make life seem worthwhile.
Because once in a while I can finish a task.

But pretending i’m fine.
Missing homework deadlines.
It’s like i’m hiding myself with a mask.

Don’t get me wrong.
Some people have it worse.
At least I have a roof over my head.

Although i’ve cried.
I’ve never considered suicide.
But others wish to be dead.

So treat me with respect.
Break the stigma.
And educate yourself.

ADHD is real.
It’s an unfair deal.
So you can choose to understand mental health.

I don’t have enough focus to listen.
And thats what your missing.
This is not a choice, this is something I dread.

So next time you judge me.
Next time you label me.
Remember, some with ADHD wish to be dead.
i Mar 2014
and you will
find me lying
on the floor,
looking happy for
the first time,
even though,
i will be in
hell,
where i truly belong.
Nikunj Dec 2012
out from school we came to jmc,
to become what our parents wanted us to be.
with NC we enjoyed harrapan and vedic civilization,
Ashima mam taught us Transition ( paleo to noelithic).
writing 10 sides answer seemed IMPOSSIBLE,
15/25 only left us numb.
coming for hindi at 8:30 was really irritating,
mam's msg of cancelling the class was even m
ore *******.
Tues and wed 8:30 were scolding days,
since frustated JS splited her anger on us.( though i like her lot)
om sai ram and gandhi was KN's department,
though antique, she was another inspiration.
enjoyed Montage for the first time,
Chronicle was the accomplishment for the lifetime.
first year ended so rapidly,
90%ees were satisfied with 60s.
then we met the iron lady of our department (chaddha mam)
she asked questions after every second point.
RS Sharma got replaced by sultans of delhi and Satish Chandra,
every notebook had words like sufi, bhakti and Iqta.
transition frm feudalism to capitalism muddled our heads,
Dobb and Sweezy never left us till the end.( remember jha's ******* :P)
enjoyed boston tea party and civil war in States,
though never understood out of khiljis and tuglaqs- who is great?
****** taught us stress, depression and suicide,
we almost got killed by Bronte's Wuthering Heights!
Orcha trip was another milestone,
Khajurao sculptures turned all of us on :P
pool party with "tinku jiya" was superfun,
each one of us made good connections.
Second year also got over and we entered in our own little world- T9.
everything was new to us,
future tension always bothered us!
Journey to China and Japan with Chakko was great,
though we never grew intellectually and understood decline of Shogunate.
Gazala mam introduced us to napoleon and bismarc,
became our friend. guide and mentor.
Chadda mam took us to royal court of mughals and rajputs,
but Iqta and jagir still confuses us!
Sleeping time came with menon's class,
18th cent and 1857 always bored us. (though i admit she is a great scholar)
we stopped studying and started enjoying life to the fullest,
since history taught us no matter what Peasant is the one who will be suppressed!
Montage 2012 rocked,
DJ Aqeel's ferrari left us in shock!
Postponing and preponing the classes was 3rd year's trait,
petty fights over it were always great.
Since first year we all wanted this day to come,
to wear saree and have FUN.
BUT....
the Farewell day has passed :(
From now onwards... NO cancelling or preponing classes, no prof to scold us, no NSS hours to complete, no deadlines of tuts, no canteen's samosas and macroni, no diwali mela, no Montage and Chronicle, no Ashok bhaiya, no ******* and commenting and last but not the least NO HISTORY HONS 3rd YEARS (2009-2012)
No one realised how these beautiful 3 years passed away.our eyes are wet but heart is content.
just wanted to tell everyone that i will miss you all. though i may have not interacted much with everyone, but I wish you all the very best for your future...

So superseniors,
leave all grudges behind and enjoy the last week of your college life at JMC to the fullest
Skye Dec 2014
what if I committed
Suicide.
Would you
Care.
Will you miss
Me.
I'm ganna commit
Suicide.
Goodbye
Please help I need someone to talk too
raiindrops Aug 2013
You can never understand, how much courage it takes for one to end their life;
The thought of putting everything to an end and not wanting to exist anymore.
And yet, some people say it's selfish of them to do and act that way.

What's saddening is the fact that one could feel so much pain in themselves,
That they see death as the only way out;
The fact that one would rather die than to be who they are.

Some people are able to try, and perhaps, see some light in their life
But for someone who attempted suicide, seeing it as the only way out,
It's as though their world is completely dark and they've lost all hope to live anymore.

Attempting suicide is the act of wanting to die.
And dying is the end of existence, an end, the point of no return.

What makes you think you have the right to criticize their act, and
What makes you think you are so sure that there is another way out,
When you aren't even sure who you are and how do you feel?

R
lindy Jul 2018
j.h
my first crush committed suicide.
i remember the hurt at a young age
from chasing him around his living room
begging him for a kiss.
from my young age i knew i wanted him
in my life forever.
through his weaves and gagging
running around the furniture and up the stairs,
losing him sounded foreign then
and having lost him now, still feels the same.
our fathers drank and our mothers giggled
born three months apart
our future planned together
both saying "i do"
uniting us all together.
life flew on by
us both fighting with ourselves
and downing the bottles underneath the bed
loaded and silenced
family portraits painted in red
long life memories all put to rest.
only one made it out alive
but it's hard to breathe
out of us how was it me
and you in a little box
where a diamond ring should be.
my mind keeps wondering
when will i stop chasing you
then my heart replays
every time you turned a corner
you looked over your shoulder
and how you smiled at me.
i miss you
Tom Leveille Jun 2014
while september cicadas
were singing my neighbors to sleep
i was up walking holes in my shoes
over love once lost
so many poems ago
that the only thing i remember
about the house at 38th & bluestone
is that it reeked of alcohol and is
as i'm sure of it
still saturated in perfume
and abandoned laughter
but that's not the point
give me a minute
what i'm trying to say
is i always thought god
enjoyed watching things leave me
it makes me wonder
what was on his mind
that night in september
when i stooped to cough
or tie my shoelaces
i no longer remember why
but i recall their trajectory
the way gravity cradled my hands
and brought them crashing back to earth like a 747
they landed inches away
from a scrap of crumpled loose leaf
folded in half like the smiles
of my relatives on a holiday truce
you see, lately i've been looking for scars in the newspaper
i find myself checking the obituary
for my former selves since the day i found your suicide letter
maybe that's why i can never explain my obsession with history
maybe archeology is just a funeral
in reverse
maybe hell is just rewinding home movies
or watching confetti
turn back into photographs
i never told anyone
the reason the doors to the gun cabinet in my family's house are locked not because they are afraid
i will take my life
but because sometimes
i sing them birthday songs
on the day you died
it makes me think
of how rooms only echo
when they are empty

*you know
i never echoed until you died
krm Oct 2019
Broken-record words,
twirl in the lobes of a brain.
Don’t play again.
Ether Jul 2017
I tried to **** myself
Regretful
Moreso, that failure

You know, its so easy to die. Slip into oblivion and say nothing matters. To hide your sorrow until tomorrow disappears.

I woke up with thick grey half moons under my eyes, yellow-grey toned skin, one half red eye and a dozen bruises on my neck.

I dont want to lose the innocence i have left. This is my confession. Hatred burns in my heart, but not just at myself anymore & if it is not my fault i can never change this terrifying world. I feel so small, i could blink & disappear...

But still, somehow, in my absence, in the simple threat of loss, fear and pity enter the hearts of those among me. So vile. So heartbreaking. The tears on my moms face having driven three hours to see me are the worst waters i might encounter. A tsunami of emotion.

Life is pain. Death is emptiness. Suicide may be relief, but failure is guilt.

Is there a balance somewhere?
tread Oct 2011
Providing you survive the drive inside the suicide lane,
The inane objections of several secular seconds will both drive you insane and tame the frame of irrational sanity,
Which stripped away the man in me,
And grabbed my sleeve convincingly to lament the angry laugh of free...

Enterprise; do I comprise of many lies,
As you do?
A gift or prize; yes I surmise the former plays no voodoo.
Like the latter,
Piter pater, I ask exactly, "Do you,"

Truly
care
to know...

If existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor,
Who washes
Shame
Away
In calm, hot showers.

What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.

What malcontent.
We thought dissent would overthrow the circus tent,
Which represented forced consent with the oppressed by blissful fraudulence
Remaining 99 percent.
Peasants, plebeians, proletariat;
We poke the U.N. Secretariat,
To ask again,

"Are we there yet?"

"Are we there yet?"

And silence is how were always met.
We drop it, trust they won't forget,
About us, suffering cold sweats;
As we fear unwanted debt,
They won't forget,
They won't forget,
They won't forget
About us.

Yet competition takes it place,
And twists that sympathetic face,
To grab a poor man's knowledge base,
To ask him,
"What do
I gain
from assisting
The likes
Of you?"

The poor man bellows, "you're poor too!
Like those who can't afford shampoo.
You can't afford my point of view,
It risks a loss that's overdue,
And money makes you misconstrue,
Existence."

And if existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor;
He forgot the human aspect should always be the biggest factor,
On his spreadsheets as he calculates productivity's next chapter;


What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.

This isn't right.
I question fines,
And wonder, where's the kindness?
What happened to our kindred spirits?
Did we leave all that behind us?
Is money truly all we want,
And happiness put second?

The future is unwritten,
So follow me;
*Expect resistance.
Ron Gavalik Nov 2015
As the **** of a 12-dollar cigar
touches the tip of the tongue,
the nervous system shoots a signal to the brain,
to process the sweet tinge
of delicious poison
that hits the back of the throat.
Slow suicide, baby,
really doesn't get any smoother.

Human bodies may desire health,
but it’s the mind that struggles
and tests mortality
as the heart races
for the best ****.

Hipsters and their vapor pipes,
their overpriced organic groceries,
coke binges and ****** addictions,
gym memberships and spinning classes,
they’re socialized to believe life
goes on forever.
They behave as if death
is a kind of curse.

We can run from sins,
wash our souls in the rain
of fresh lovers in new cities.
Sins, however, collect.
They grow in strength.
All we have in the end,
is the sweet tinge of satisfaction
that comes from killing oneself
in style.
To be included in my next collection, **** River Sins.
ri Jan 2016
somehow all my poems turned into suicide notes  
sometimes I think death follows me everywhere
it's like the wind blows and surrounds me like a tornado and I'm being thrown in every direction and the wind will not stop until it has destroyed everything, including me
it's like my room is constantly on fire and I'm surrounded by smoke and I'm supposed to stop drop and roll into the grave
it's like your hands are over me and your suffocating me and I can't breathe
it's like a call for help but I'm in a room with deaf people
it's like I'm finally opening up and asking for help but everyone is mute
it's like no one can be sad just poetically sad
I can write on paper that I want to **** myself and people call it poetry
and all my suicide notes are being turned into poetry
this is not a suicide note
Annie McLaughlin Mar 2016
three*
I am dead inside
two
I have no place to hide
one
In death I will abide
Sorry for the ****** poems lately... Doesn't mean Im going to stop writing them, but sorry.
Dondaycee Sep 2017
I just wanted freedom,
I’m not talking about rights, that’s irrelevant.
We just wanted freedom,
As in the youth wanting better ways for development.
I’m speaking on the behalf of those unaware of their intelligence,
Those who discovered their element but kept the closet shut.
Afraid to offer the clothes on their back,
They’ll say it’s confidence we lack,
But here’s the ugliest fact,
We don’t open doors with skeletons.
Unless it’s Halloween, where dark and light are in resonance,
Yin and Yang, beauty is ugly and ugly is beauty, humorous medicine.
I have a testament, that if the morals in this holiday were a measurement of 365 days, it would be evident according to my estimate, that unity and love would be proper etiquette, excellent because even the dark would be perceived as heaven-sent.
The terms evil and hell would then be indefinite allowing a person to open a door with a skeleton as a cause without the effect being bedevilment.
That’s freedom.
Some have it in the day, most find it at night.
It could be with family or with friends.
A celebration of a season, or a reason to escape a thing we call life.
A venting conversation after empty bottles,
A sleep over when home is hostile,
They say happiness is in the moment,
I say that moment occurs when you’re no longer in a position to fight,
For a home, a place of comfort and acceptance,
A place where your company is appreciated,
We all need love, that warm feeling we get when standing in light,
Or the uplifting vibrations when the environment opens up, and you’re no longer forced to sit tight but now have the opportunity of standing up to take flight.
We deserve some freedom.
I used to feel alone,
With awareness that term became solitude,
I can’t crave attention after joining the mission,
I had to look in the mirror,
“Keep it together” said Kyi,
“Because this is a solid move”
But but, I’m losing my friends.
“You’re choosing your men.”
“A positive team,
Because that’s what knowledge do”
“Here’s a time reference using latitude.”
“Move forward, chase the rabbit food,
Clear vision with a positive attitude.”
“Moving West to east may feel like you’re leaving things behind,
But understand earth and understand time,
We circle back around, think of a birthday, there will always be a time when you're gonna look back at you.”
“That’s a rapid move.
These are states of Matter, going from solid to gas,
A caged bird ready to fly, that’s a cockatoo.”
“Atoms aren’t alone, eventually they meet others,
There’s a bigger picture, that’s a molecule.”
“Don’t feel alone, atoms go through solitude when there’s a column move, solid to gas-”
-a solid move-
“- but in our case, a change in longitude,
Because we’re shifting our consciousness from 3rd to 5th dimension.”
I understand the magnitude of the mission, that’s why we made this decision,
No need to crave attention when acting with promptitude,
Like minded people will act as a molecule and help constitute  a solid move in longitude, breaking the physical is an important attribute, analytical travel route, an atom moving towards freedom in its absolute-
“Knowledge acting as carrots, erasing ignorance, clearing the vision for an Omni move.”
The conscious battles to become the subconscious, the freedom to be all of me instead of part of me, that’s a body move.
Freedom is all I wanted,
Freedom is all we wanted,
Being labeled Millennials was the outcome,
It’s not life but these systems we’re trying to out run.
They look at suicide like, “What went wrong?”
“She looked so happy…”
Or “How did he feel alone.”
Freedom is when you have a home,
If I’m talking and you’re listening, that’s being heard,
But if you can’t understand it, there’s no meaning in the word,
That’s a failure in communication, standing without a herd I’d still be on my own.
If anything, the previous generations don’t understand emotions,
Feeling empty is indeed a deep feeling.
They say there’s not much in the bottom of the ocean,
I say dive,
“But Daycee we can’t the pressure will crush us.”
Now you see why suicide is chosen,
We dive, looking for something we know is there, unaware of the pressure, we get crushed by our own emotions.
These are powerful feelings and thoughts,
We see the insanity and what was lost in erosion.
Try to understand us, don’t try to change us, just like those whom predates emphasize, “Don’t blame us.” We must change a system that caused the previous generations to be broken, if anything our generation is bringing hope in, refusing to be above or below one, our words if anything are the greatest ever spoken,
We need people to understand us, not just listen, because these systems aren’t working,
Einstein said “A problem can’t be solved with the same consciousness that created it”, so don’t point fingers at us saying “Millennials” and that we were always given ****, when we’re the group that gave a **** about the world and the people that hated it and attempted change by not doing the same thing over and over again, innovative because we’re some creative kids,
I hope this is provoking because ****** we are special, specifically chosen,
To bring back balance and unity in consciousness that the ignorant and insane broken,
I am here to bring freedom,
Because freedom is something we all need,
The millennials are here to bring freedom,
Because it’s the one thing we all see,
The brothers and sisters we lost heard it call from the bottom of the sea,
Our ancestors want us to bring back freedom that was lost in waters but remained in gene,
Freedom is a kingdom we’re bringing where all is free.
Mike Hauser Aug 2015
How many say
Life is killing me
I do believe
The very same thing

It's like a give away
Of our history
No need to see
A past that's buried

What did you have in mind
As your moving through time
It is your dime
Spend it however you like

But in the meantime
Your still going to find
Life is very much like
A slow suicide

Even holidays
Will not delay
That one more day
From your everlasting fate

You pay the freight
On mistakes that you make
Though there may be a delay
It's never that late

What else did you have in mind
As your moving through time
Spending your dime
However you like

You can try and hide
But your still bound to find
Life is very much like
A slow suicide
LifeInLiterature Mar 2010
Dream of my demise

Because the pain is swallowing me

This is one of the few things I can see

It sprouts inside

Like a disease

That can’t be controlled

I realize that life is not mine to hold

Because one day we all die

Death’s fingers you cannot pry

  

The End is on the phone

He wants to talk to you

He says “In a sense we all die alone”

I hang on this because my mind is dark

The world isn’t an easy walk in the park

Dying is easy

Life is harder

  

Innocence is gone

Forever knowing that

The dawn is gone

I am gone

Because life you have to endure

No matter what we’re always at war

Death, we cannot hide

We can’t pretend that we’re alive

Even if it’s suicide

I know I’m dead inside

Empty inside

  

Life can’t be given away

No matter how I pray

If I could, I would die

Commit suicide

To give someone another chance

To be happy

  

Because I don’t want others to suffer

Death is inevitable

And I’m stupidly in love with that fact

Dream of my demise

Dying is easy

Life is harder

  

And I say this now

Because I’m not afraid of death

I’m waiting for it

Every second we’re dying

Getting closer

To the point we’re almost flying

  

I want to run from my mind

To cut my tears

And **** these fears

Try to escape

Seal my fate

Not suffocate

Under society

  

It’s truly a nightmare

To be alone

To feel abandoned

To not trust

To be trusted

  

Because you’ll let them down

And they don’t need to suffer

Voices used to speak

I miss them

I miss the happy little girl I was

My heart used to glow

Now it’s black and torn

Sinking through the spikes

This heart used to beat

Used to dream

  

Of little kittens and fluffy clouds

Now I imagine what I wish

Pale skin

Green Eyes

Meadow with black roses

Snow falls soft

I lay here

Dream of my demise

Dying is easy

Life is harder

  

Black and white

And I’m gone

Dying is peaceful

Dying is easy

Life is harder

Life hurts

  

I lay here now

Snow covered grass

Surrounded by green trees

Black roses make a bed

The sky is grey with clouds

  

Snow falls softly

My skin is pale and cold

Green eyes

My heart flies

  

Death is peaceful

Love is hurtful

Ignorance is always

Innocence is gone

Dream of my demise

Dying is easy

Life is harder

  

  

  

  

Give life away

Take the price to pay

I take the knife

Slice twice

Watch the blood pour

Feel the rush

Pain is crushed

Feel your heart soar

  

Medication overdose

In your blood

Feel the rush

Life is seeping

I am bleeding

This is suicide

  

Bathroom door slams open

Hear the scream

In my dreams

They found the note

In my room

About how I’m sentenced to certain doom

  

I know I’m dead

From their cries

I feel the smile on my lips

Under my demise

I gave my life away

  

I know my casket’s open

I feel the tears fall down on me

Screams of grief

Shouts of joy

The rest I cannot hear

  

And I feel safer

Death is peaceful

Dying is easy

Life was harder

Life was hurtful

  

I see the knife

In the forest

Blood in a pool around it

I can taste the blood

  

Death is sweet

I’m still slipping away

And death has come

My pain is gone

Love has been fulfilled

  

And anger is gone

I can feel what it’s like

To be happy

For my heart to be steady

  

Curled up in a ball

Safe and warm

I can feel the snow fall

This black heart is forever gone

Now the others can see the dawn

  

Decode my existence

What was my purpose?

To fade in the distance?

I was no one’s paramour

And I won’t be anymore

  

Dream of my demise

Dying is easy

Life is harder

I am gone

  

There goes my hero

If I had one

And if I did

Let the flames begin

Because

  

Life was harder

Dying was hardest

  

Dream of my demise

  

My excuse

To run away

To be afraid

Can’t be told

I want to scream it

  

  

But no one would come

This isn’t taken truthfully

Full of meaning

Isn’t seen as how destroyed I am

  

My breathing falters

All the time

On the inside

Act at school

Play along

Keep my heart beating

Still not even

But they can’t hear it

  

See how broken I am

In my room

Still acting

Just listening

To the band I pretend to like

  

I hear someone move

I start to panic

Hide my cuts with the blanket

“I don’t need help” I chant to myself

But I know I do

I refuse

  

“I didn’t do it”

I sadly sigh

“Just a dream”

Not suicide

  

I did cut deep

In my sleep

Wait in bed

Let it bleed

I look at the walls

Pictures plastered

“Pathetic” I whisper

  

The TV is off

I check the clock

2 A.M.

On the dot

  

  

Take a C.D.

Put in headphones

Put it on repeat

  

I fall asleep

To Flightless Bird, American Mouth

I dream of my secret

The one only I will leave with

  

I’m acting again

The next day at school

Breathing slightly better

But my heartbeat is louder

And more uneven

Still empty

  

I do my work

Repeat and ditto

Everyday

Acting

But not Broadway

  

“Just follow the pattern” I think

  

“And never come back someday”
I'm a bit of a pyscho child.
Staring corpselike at the ceiling,
See his harsh, unrazored features,
Ghastly brown against the pillow,
And his throat--so strangely bandaged!

Lack of work and lack of victuals,
A debauch of smuggled whisky,
And his children in the workhouse
Made the world so black a riddle

That he plunged for a solution;
And, although his knife was edgeless,
He was sinking fast towards one,
When they came, and found, and saved him.

Stupid now with shame and sorrow,
In the night I hear him sobbing.
But sometimes he talks a little.
He has told me all his troubles.

In his broad face, tanned and bloodless,
White and wild his eyeballs glisten;
And his smile, occult and tragic,
Yet so slavish, makes you shudder!
kellie anderson Apr 2017
the first time i met suicide, i was alarmed at how smooth his voice was
the loudness of a fire alarm and the softness of a mother whispering to a child
all at once
it was exhilarating
and in my mind it played constantly
i was unable to shut him out because i craved the way his voice touched me.
it had a body of its own and i crushed beneath its arms
the way suicide said my name made it feel unspoken
and he twisted his words, tugging and pulling
until there was nothing left i could do to untangle myself from within them
he made even the word death seem stunning

and his hands
they grasped my neck like a noose and took my breath away
his fingers grazed over my scars and made them feel lovely
the more i created, a small blade grazing against my inner thigh,
the more suicide fell in love with me
and deeper and deeper he fell
his strong hands held no calluses yet they weakened every time he hit me.
he painted me in light purples and deep reds.
i let him work wonders out of me.
and when he led me into the water to cleanse me,
our intertwined hands fell perfectly in place and i couldn't let go,
allowing the water to drench every inch of me.

each time i faced suicide,
he came up with different ways to convince me
that my life was something that needed to be destroyed
as if i was at a winning war with it; a nuclear bomb ticking away, seconds from explosion

he lit my mind on fire and burned thoughts into my skull.
he made my mind work backwards.
as if pills were the most delicious candy.
as if a noose was an expensive, fragile necklace.
as if my clothes could only be worn with thick bloodstains

the last time i met with suicide,
i gazed into his light green eyes
and he put me to sleep with his alluring voice
as i held his hand tightly at my resting heart.
and i loved
every
last
second
of it.
Aryana Mar 2014
She wanted to die
She was sick of the pain
This wasnt a lie
She just wanted fame

She wanted to be just like them
But they sat and made fun of her
They laughed and called her name
They picked on her, her life was blurr

She cryed and she moped
But she finally couldnt take it
And ran all the way home
Her heart had split

She lost all hope
To every be loved she only got a face full of fists
She filled up the bathtub
And slit her wrists

Her parents found her
In the bath full of red
They cryed and weeped
"Oh my god shes dead"

The father grabbed her and sobbed
His beloved daughter gone, in another world
Now there older
And still grive over there girl

They set up a thing
For anti bullies called no more suicide
They atracted many people who went throught the same
Dont commit suicide, come to us, dont hide!!!
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.
Mihle Mdashe Feb 2019
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.
Outsider May 2019
Pain used to inspire me to write.
Words would flow easily through my fingers,
substituting my tears.
I used to draw my pain. I painted my canvas with feelings,
and emotions, that words could not express.
If things started to feel hopeless, music was my saviour.
I would write lyrics, amplifying the words with sad tunes,
spilling my deepest, darkest thoughts.
But now, the pain is so strong, it is all I can think of.
My thighs are covered in scars,
from when the pain got so bad, that I needed to bleed it out.
Now, I realize, that I have drained myself.
There´s no tears, no words, no paint, no blood
left,
to spill.
I hope that whoever can relate to this, keeps on going. Don´t give up, even if it feels hopeless. There´s always a way out. Suicide does not have to be one of them.
Marshal Gebbie Dec 2010
For my mate Ernest W who cared....

Invisible in silky strands, a gossamer of lethal thought,
Drifting through the nether regions, touching on my mind.
Complication’s vagaries encroaching on the circumspect
Magnifying well beyond solutions I can find.

Nervous in the groundswell now, I feel it all inflating,
Inflating to a curtaining beyond my self control,
Waves of peristalsis in a shrill persistant keening,
Locking out the sanity in holding logic’s goal.

Waves of peristalsis in a bath of perspiration
Panic in a rupture at the coccyx of my spine,
Ravenously eating at the fabric of all reason
Ravenously gnawing at this rationale of mine.

***** in a puddle on the floor beside my footwear
Cloying is the stench of the ***** in my drawers,
Lost are the vestiges of any thought of decency
Gone is the differentiation in my flaws.

Clenching of hands in a bind of blue confusion
Catatonic slowness in arresting the decline,
Vaccilating eyeballs are rolling for the camera
And utter desolation is a flavour on my mind.

Why be concerned with the shaming of tomorrow?
Why come to terms with the maunderings of late?
Why face the music of the mirth and derision
When there’s a more practical direction to take?

Glide to the realm of the smooth overflowing
Slide in the slipstream oblivion makes,
Slip the bonds of your sad  mortal tenure’s
Awful array of destructive mistakes.

Glide to the realm of serene independence
Glide far away from the troubled and hard,
Gone to the gossamer web of the ether
Gone to the nether world’s silky facade.

...........: But what's the guts Courageous,
You happy with your deed?
Are your friends all overjoyed
To see your suicide succeed?
Is your family unaffected
By the loss and guilt remorse,
Your sudden grand departure
leaving kids without recourse?

Did you think about the aftermath?
The chaos and the pain
And the long term implications
Of your shattered families' shame?
The guilt within your partners heart,
The kids who are confused
And the ****** dissapointment
Of your mates.. who feel abused?

The mess you left behind you
And the tangled web you wove
And the bruising of good memories
For which, you once,...had strove.
Your painless, quick demise, you thought,
Released you from all this.....
But the sadness in the silent eyes
Condemns you as remiss.



Marshalg  
In an effort to understand why?
....And explain why not !
9 December 2010



Read more: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/suicide-12/#ixzz17kzvfsTk
Grim Princess Jun 2013
Made up and ready

Lipstick perfect, hair curled

Eyeliner unsmeared

Dress sparkly as ever

But today is the day

So the dress is stained with red

Laying down on the floor

Bleeding out with pills in her hand

Beautiful prom princess

So young but too old

Empty bottle beside her

Fading, fading,
almost gone

Eyes closed, slipping away

Makeup still perfect

She’s leaving now

To sleep peacefully,
forever.
Unknown Sep 2018
My Teenage years;
Teenage years with people saying 'sit down and shut up'
Teenage years with no one caring
Teenage years with physical abuse
Teenage years with razor blades
Teenage years with no mother
Teenage years with bottles of pills
Teenage years with ****** assualt
Teenage years with suicide attempts
Teenage years with no reason to live
Teenage years spent pining for what was lost.



© Copyright Tyler Atherton
I've heard people say countless times that Valentine's Day isn't easy for everyone

referring of course to the single people out there

but my name was never mentioned regardless of my relationship status,

because I was a special situation

three years ago to the day, my mother committed suicide

three long and somehow short years ago my mother took both her life, and a good chunk of mine

no chocolates

flowers

cards

or "I'm sorry"

can make me have a Happy Valentine's Day

on days filled with roses and kisses,

my day will be filled with sobs of regret and glimpses of similarities in mine and my mother's situation,

the desire for everything to stand still

on days filled with romance and anticipation you can find me trying my best to stay distracted, and failing at it one hundred percent.

on days of love, you can find me wishing for death.
Roots crave the storm that splits slits wide—  
her mouth, a monsoon, hymns the altar of my hips.  
Bloom, collapse—the flower’s suicide.  

We harmonize in rot, two parasite brides—  
her tongue, moonlight, laps my bark’s eclipse.  
Roots crave the storm that splits slits wide,  

though thorns pierce our palms (we clutch, deranged, we lied).  
Her breath, a serpent, hisses through my lips:  
Bloom, collapse—the flower’s suicide.  

My spine, a stalk; her teeth strip back the rind.  
She peels me raw—a lyre of nerves, unzipped.  
Roots crave the storm that splits slits wide—  

each gasp, a flood; each bruise, a psalm denied.  
We drown in mud, the earth a sloppy kiss of silt.  
Bloom, collapse—the flower’s suicide.  

The hollow stalk still sings the storm’s refrain—  
But hunger’s her religion. I’m her crypt.  
Roots crave the storm that splits slits wide.  
Bloom, collapse—the flower’s suicide.
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of ***,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
She Writes Feb 2019
there is no beauty in suicide
just a cold, clammy body
blood merging with tears
the loss of hope on display

the end of pain
becomes the reality of another

there is no beauty in suicide
just wet eyes and heavy hearts
another soul gone too soon
and a box in the dirt
Edward Coles May 2017
Flies swarm when the floodlights come on.
They **** and they fight, live and die.
In the space of an hour
turf becomes a bed of glass wings-
none are left
straining for the light.
It looks like a mass suicide.
Eggs hatch in the sweat of night.
Tachycardic at birth,
one brief exultation
enough to still the lung,
nullify the heart.
Yawn out of existence,
bullfrogs croak miserably
as bodies fall from the sky.
You ask me why I cannot sleep-
I saw a thousand deaths tonight.
C
cozy april Nov 2013
I hope
That when we're older
Wiser, Bolder
We can understand
The things that use to break us
And realize
Suicide shouldn't take us.

a.s.
Destiny Mar 2020
I'm afraid of fire.

I'm afraid of the fire that blazes and melts flesh.

I'm afraid of the fire I feel in my cheeks when I'm embarrassed.

I'm afraid of the fire on the inside when I'm angry.

I'm afraid of the fire in my mind when I sleep.

I'm afraid of the fire on the inside when I'm sad

BUT MOST OF ALL, I'M AFRAID OF THE FIRE I FEEL ON MY SKIN WHEN I HAVE EXTREME URGES

My scars scream...
My skin crawls...
My head spins...

Please go away.
Please go away.
Please go away.

I say it as though I'm calm...

PLEASE GO AWAY!
PLEASE GO AWAY!
PLEASE GO AWAY!

When I should say it like this...

I'm such a failure to myself.
If I pick up the razor, everything I just worked towards will disappear.
I will become homeless.
I will actually have no one.
I won't have anything to live for, which would give me and excuse for suicide being the answer.
I say NO!
SUICIDE IS NOT WORTH IT!
Suicide only kills others on the inside.
Suicide only kills the dreams of your family.
Suicide doesn't even **** you!

You think that if you **** yourself that everyone you've ever met and loved will forget about you.

You think that the memory of you is dead and that's why you think it's okay to kills yourself, when in reality your memory will become more prominent.

You think that nothing will matter to anyone when you breath your last breath, but you don't understand that everything following your suicide will matter more than ever.

You think that this is it...that you'll be in pain for the rest of your life.

Your life is going to be so beautiful!

Yes, you'll have your ups and downs, but so what? You've been through so many of those already!

Stay strong!

Even if it's for your pet fish...
Or your favorite stuffed animal...
Or your favorite TV show to come out with a new season...
Or you to order your favorite food...
Or for you to dance in the rain...
Or for you to make your very first Doctors appointment on your own...
Or to meet the love of your life...
Or to stroll downtown...
Or to go to the fanciest place ever...
Or to ride a helicopter...
Or to go fishing for the first time...
Or to get married...
Or to have your first baby...
Or to go swimming with dolphins...

I could go on and on with this list on why you should go on with your life.

You never know what tomorrow will bring.

Things will eventually get better.
Cori MacNaughton Jul 2015
Depression might not
be helped by a book that starts
with a suicide
Third of four poems written this morning.
I decided to get out of my weekend blue funk by listening to the audiobook of Christopher Moore's inspired insanity, namely his book "The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove," which may well be the funniest book I've ever read.  
Naturally, having read the book around ten years ago, I completely forgot that the book opens with a suicide, which of course struck me as hilariously funny in context.  
Especially since depression - namely the depression gripping the whole town - figures prominently in the story.  
Yeah, I'm weird.  ;-)
Elise Dec 2013
I don't belong here
and I don't mean this town I mean this earth
I'm not quite made out to be human you know?
if we were all created from a couple chemical reactions and a huge burst of light at some center of the universe I must be going home when I die
and I want to go home
I am homesick
for a place I barely remember
but it is nowhere here
no point on a map I can put my finger on
no road to get me there
and you know
I wouldn't be me without my sadness
it's as a part of my like my arms are
sadness is what makes me interesting
and I think thats why
no one ever notices
how sad I am
my mom didn't check off the box labeled depression when I went to the doctor the other day
and I didn't have the heart to tell her
sometimes I feel so sad
I feel so sick
but I'm laughing
and every breath hurts me and
oh how I want to go home
but it makes me interesting
makes me unique
who I am
not the sadness
just what it makes me do
I talk to people as if it's the last time I will see them a lot
drive a little too fast
I tried to commit suicide once
and I never did
I was pulled off a bridge
screaming really
I wanted to feel whole if only for a second before I hit the water
but I'm not afraid anymore
I think about dying a lot
but
I don't make solid plans
or write letters
and sometimes I still think about throwing myself off a bridge
or in front of a car
sometimes I write sentences, just single sentences
to leave when I am gone
and sometimes I want to write a suicide book
and other times the only suicide note I need is your name
but I don't
because I made a promise to a boy that left me that I would stay
the problem with being homesick
is we are taught that eventually you go home anyway
but

I'm not leaving
do I even write poems or is it just what I think in a slightly coherent rhythm?

— The End —