24 begins with its cruel rule:
"No sustenance or quenching of thirst
until the sad/happy day passes."

Caring women with initials enter
Poking, prodding, asking the same questions,
While loved ones nervously watch.

Close friends, friends, and strangers
Phone and visit, offering their comforting words.
"We love you."  "We're praying for you."
"Make a pact with God."  "Chin up!"  "Happy Birthday!"

Their messages intermingle with disquieting thoughts
Of hopes and dreams left unfulfilled.
"Why me?"  "What now?"  "I knew it was too good to be true."
As hunger gnaws, and expectation is postponed.

A caring woman with initials enters one last time,
Poking, prodding, asking the same questions,
As the pushers of the bed arrive with their benign smiles.

Unwanted darkness returns,
As uncommon mortals work at their bizarre craft,
Opening the golden bowl,
Exposing its precious contents.

East and West Coast loved ones,
Separated by time and circumstance,
Carry on their prayerful vigil.

As 24 continues,
Surrounded by love,
Sustained by hope.

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)

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.