3rd Annual Poems About Suicide Month

[Todd]

Fuck Plath.

Yeah, I went there.

We'd probably have to dig her up.

[Leanne]

We have the technology.

[Leanne]

The red light blinking on my monitor
tells me your gossip,
the things you say about my hair,
my skin, the sweat that itches between my cheeks.

I imagine it filling your mouth
and rinsing you, inside out,
with an essence less filthy than your words.

I could press a button and you
would disappear, but then
there'd be no-one to blame
except my own pathetic self.

You call me names and they define me.
I slit my veins and they remind me
that every drop I spill
will stain you forever.

[aschueler]

Fuck Plath.

Yeah, I went there.

We'd probably have to dig her up.

That exchange approaches a religious experience for me.

[QDeathstar]

Jump


I'm not sad ok.
I'm egg yolk swirling
disgusting. Shapeless.

I'm your brain
on drugs.
over-cooked,
undone.

A pre-birth stew
of life cracked and scrambled
aborted and ate.

I'm hopes shadow.
look up.

[Keith]

Self critique

It started with cutting just a few words,
not too much mostly cliche
but it made things worse
so I started in line by line
that seemed to work fine
apart from the habit of forcing my rhymes.

My titles never seem to work
and I think it should end
before the last verse
as most of the good stuff
is the bit that comes first.

They'll say he just stopped writing
but there's no poetry in that?
and although the petrol smell
is frightening and the tiptoed
noose is tightening.
It just comes down to the ending
and a slow mo match descending.

[Leanne]

The pen is empty
nobody's posting
feels like a morgue
and here I am, ghosting
in silence -- just me
and billy

I never felt more
like ending it all

this is truley something great.

I'm sorry you think that...

[Lizzie]

Self critique

I started by cutting a few words,
not too much mostly cliche
but it made them worse
so I started doing lines
that seemed to work fine
appart from habitual forced rhyme.

My titles never seem to work
and I think all my poems
should end before the last verse
as most of the good stuff
is in the ones I wrote first.

They'll say he just stopped writing
but there's no poetry in that?
and although the petrol smell
is frightening and the tiptoed
noose is tightening.
It just comes down to the ending
and a slow mo match descending.

That last paragraph is just, well, poetry You're one of my favorite authors on this site. Great read!

---

Can we still contribute to this thread even though the month has ended?

[ellajam]

Sure, if you're moved to a suicide poem, this is the place. We've had members do the April NaPM threads months later at their leisure. No reason to close threads like this, it's always good to be moved to write.

[Lizzie]

She hasn't slept in three years.
Her children are restless and nocturnal,
but today they sleep and their silence
seeps slowly forward into the front seats
and her eyelids begin oscillating like tides.
A tire drops over the edge
onto the shoulder, awakening her only enough to feel
the sweetness that could take her
if she just stopped struggling,
stopped caffeinating, and let the car roll over
like a balmy dreamer.

[Vanity]

Fuck Plath.

Yeah, I went there.

We'd probably have to dig her up.

 Lol

[RiverNotch]

AFTER OZY AND MILLIE (brief not-part-of-the-piece intro: i suppose it's a little too late, but all this talk of Plath drew me like a shark to Amity Island)

Your funeral song?

Brahms' Requiem. No, Liebestod. No, I got it: M*A*S*H. 'Suicide is Painless'. Should be appropriate.

Jesus Christ! These times are just crazy. Well, I guess all times are crazy, to those with eyes who live in them. Or maybe I'm just crazy -- everyone around me seems to be happy. Or at least content. Or at least complacent.

Jesus Christ! Should I tell, should I tell? or should I make like a Sylvia Plath again, and encase my troubles in poetry? More importantly -- how long has it been, since I last encased my troubles in poetry?

Or maybe I should just encase my head in carbon monoxide. Lol no, too indulgent.

Slit my wrists in a Roman bath? Too grandiose.

Burn myself alive? But what would I protest -- and who would listen?

Jump off a building. A simple death -- and if the building's tall enough, for a second I'd feel like flying. Before the terror kicks in, the gasp for breath.

Drowning. Er, no. Just no.

A pistol to the head? Maybe set up like in "The Deer Hunter", or in that Lermontov book. Whichever way, it's definitely the simplest death -- though somehow, it still feels too grandiose.

Though now I wonder: would God hate me if I killed myself? That's what everyone says about hell. "God still loves you as you hang, but his anger *will* fry you to a crisp." That's the very definition of hate, stupid.

Oh, don't worry, dear reader, I don't want to *actually* kill myself. I desire a more symbolic death --- like that time I broke all contact with the lot of you. Or that other time I broke all contact with the lot of you. Or the time I went to Russia, and for a moment contemplated just staying, just hiding out in one of the monasteries, living off the kvass, the leftover hosts -- at last, witnessing winter.

But not really. I find a social death to be somewhat redundant -- again, these times. Not a spiritual death, either, otherwise I wouldn't even consider killing myself. Something quieter, more honest.

Here, I'll tell. I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And yes, it sounds cliche, but you mustn't take things so figuratively -- not everything I say is poetry.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. She was beautiful, with red hair, green eyes, and a body made of marble. Now that last one, that was figurative.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And her mind was beautiful, too. She always knew what to say -- rather, how to say it. 

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And her heart. She was the first (and last) person I ever truly talked to -- and the only voice I actually loved hearing. (Don't you see? When I'm loud like this, I'm not saying anything -- I'm just coaxing you to speak louder. Not that you ever notice, you Narcissus)

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. Maybe a memory, although that's a question I don't want to consider anymore, it's caused me such heartache.

It's causing me heartache now. It's always like this, you know: every year, like spring cleaning, I pass my fingers over my naked body, remember all the old wounds, examine all the new ones. Then this -- the perpetual scab. Like an eight-day old operation, changing through error from Jew to Lucy. Yes, God hates fags.

He also hates incestuous couples, whatever you call them. Returning to the wound: I pick it, as I pick all my scabs. But unlike with the others, which I eventually let grow into scars, it receives special treatment. After picking, I scratch -- after scratching, I poke -- after poking, I plunge. And lastly, like a vampire, I lap. My blood tastes sweet. 

(I believe you've tasted it before? in my words, my poetry -- in fact, even in my acts, for everything I do, I do for love of you)

Of You -- of her. Yes, that's the heartache: she rejected me. Rejected me by not existing, that shadow, that damn dream. That Daddy. But the wound is different -- I know how not to conflate. The wound is this: that I conflate her with God. No, that I love her above God.

Here's the thing about suicide: once you witness an exit, you desire it more than the field outside. You desire it more than happiness. You desire it more than passing your hand over Witchgrass, than watching your Geraniums grow white with snow. Such that in the end, you truly can't ever be happy.

I'm just glad I don't care about happiness. I don't think I'll be happy in the cold, however much I say I love it. I don't think I'll be happy in the church, however much I know it's right. And I don't think I'll be happy with her --- but still, I'll be with her.

When I kill myself, it won't be for my sake, but for hers.

[rayheinrich]

Here, I'll tell. I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And yes, it sounds cliche, but you mustn't take things so figuratively -- not everything I say is poetry.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. She was beautiful, with red hair, green eyes, and a body made of marble. Now that last one, that was figurative.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And her mind was beautiful, too. She always knew what to say -- rather, how to say it.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And her heart. She was the first (and last) person I ever truly talked to -- and the only voice I actually loved hearing. (Don't you see? When I'm loud like this, I'm not saying anything -- I'm just coaxing you to speak louder. Not that you ever notice, you Narcissus)

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. Maybe a memory, although that's a question I don't want to consider anymore, it's caused me such heartache.

...

When I kill myself, it won't be for my sake, but for hers.

"I fell in love with a shadow" definitely sounded cliche until I read how you wrote it. Liked muchly.
And the wound part was disturbingly good. And killing yourself to end others misery is one of those
egotistical suicidal delusions that's so often true. A crafty mix!

---

---

        70 miles an hour

        telephone poles

        turn the steering wheel or listen to the radio?

[CRNDLSM]

Listen & Fall Asleep

I listen to music until i fall asleep
I listen to music until I fall asleep
To keep my mind from plunging in too deep

How did I ever come to this?
How did I ever come to this?
What's creeping through my head I can't resist

My head weighs heavy on the floor
My hand's held steady on the door
Close it once, closed forever more

Over the edge the cliff is steep
It's all I can do to keep
From plunging headfirst into the deep

To keep my mind from plunging in too deep

[zorcas]

The pen is empty
nobody's posting
feels like a morgue
and here I am, ghosting
in silence -- just me
and billy

I never felt more
like ending it all

tugs at the heartstrings  

 
HELPFUL
Sure, I'll edit your
suicide note.
It's the best idea
you ever smote.

"I want to put
 a bullet in my brain"

That's something
from which
you should refrain.
After all,
it would take a
marksman
to hit anything
 that small.

"Girls hate me.
They won't
 ever date me."

What's wrong
with your head?
You think
they'll date you
when you’re dead?

You must start over,
and I'll help all I can.
Despite your
misplaced commas
and tearful dramas,
I'll make it read
as if written by a man.
 
Finding the right words
will be a happy chore
since soon
there won't be
any anymore.
 ****

[CRNDLSM]

The pen is empty
nobody's posting
feels like a morgue
and here I am, ghosting
in silence -- just me
and billy

I never felt more
like ending it all

tugs at the heartstrings  

 
HELPFUL
Sure, I'll edit your
suicide note.
It's the best idea
you ever smote.

"I want to put
 a bullet in my brain"

That's something
from which
you should refrain.
After all,
it would take a
marksman
to hit anything
 that small.

"Girls hate me.
They won't
 ever date me."

What's wrong
with your head?
You think
they'll date you
when you’re dead?

You must start over,
and I'll help all I can.
Despite your
misplaced commas
and tearful dramas,
I'll make it read
as if written by a man.
 
Finding the right words
will be a happy chore
since soon
there won't be
any anymore.
 ****

You really capture the desperation, hope it ends well

[Lizzie]

it would take a
marksman
to hit anything
 that small.

"Girls hate me.
They won't
 ever date me."

What's wrong
with your head?

That's what she said.

[ellajam]

Zorcas wrote:

"I want to put
a bullet in my brain"

That's something
from which
you should refrain.
After all,
it would take a
marksman
to hit anything
that small.

[Bueller]

I careen around corners,
trying not to smash
into people, break them like glass
as they cross the street.
Children in strollers,
joggers on leashes are all going
about their days as if order exists:
as if all cars have brakes
and all drivers, control.
All I can do is accelerate
and slam into this row
of cop cars, just to stop.

[dukealien]

I careen around corners,
trying not to smash
into people, break them like glass
as they cross the street.
Children in strollers,
joggers on leashes are all going
about their days as if order exists:
as if all cars have brakes
and all drivers, control.
All I can do is accelerate
and slam into this row
of cop cars, just to stop.

A more benign case of "suicide by cop" than most (in which the suicide forces police to kill him).  With airbags, though, probability of success is low - more a "call for help" scenario.  Very effectively written.