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Literature Text
what would change if i left?
would you wear your sadness
like a bullet-- raw and fresh and
slung, chafing, into solemn chambers;
or would you swallow it down
to poison your lungs,
steal your breath & dissolve
the remnants of me?
would you smoke yourself out,
a pyre of anger in one fist
smouldering with resentment--
unfueled but hot and bright and
burning our love to ashes;
or would you hang it,
trailing, coiled around your neck
where it will catch, untenanted,
on shards of me and tighten
to choke you?
would you throw in the towel
and jump, too, unfettered
without my soul;
or would you just breathe butterflies,
an exultation of relief and gratitude?
would you wear your sadness
like a bullet-- raw and fresh and
slung, chafing, into solemn chambers;
or would you swallow it down
to poison your lungs,
steal your breath & dissolve
the remnants of me?
would you smoke yourself out,
a pyre of anger in one fist
smouldering with resentment--
unfueled but hot and bright and
burning our love to ashes;
or would you hang it,
trailing, coiled around your neck
where it will catch, untenanted,
on shards of me and tighten
to choke you?
would you throw in the towel
and jump, too, unfettered
without my soul;
or would you just breathe butterflies,
an exultation of relief and gratitude?
Literature
Before I Can Become a Writer
Develop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitab
Literature
what we're not supposed to talk about
I could make a story out of
this. The blackout epiphanies
blinding me like a total eclipse
of any sense of rationality I ever
stole out from my parents' blind spots
when they turned the other way. The
boy I fell half in love with and
my therapist's unassuming questions
about why he was different, the way I
was never beautiful to him but he
still looked me in my bokeh eyes,
betraying and quiet, so that was enough.
My vain addiction to anything
permanently damaging and
more or less glamorous. The dreams
I can’t swallow no matter what shade
of delusion they come in, about
the imminent death of stars named
after deader lovers, and place
Literature
Murder your Poem
Make your poem suffer,
it needs to know how you feel.
And if it doesn't, your poem is ignorant.
Gouge the pen deep within it, until bloody ink stains through.
Write very hard
so your poem can feel your scars.
If you crinkle the corners,
good;
it needs to have broken tattered bones.
Feeling exhausted before your done.
Do not share or post your poem so soon,
for it needs to feel rejection.
Most important, before it dies.
Never..
Clean it's wounds, or tape its rips,
do no accept forgiveness..
As your poem dies, you'll be surprised.
Your dead withered poem,
has found
new life.
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As dark as this is, it's not a suicide note. I'm not suicidal.
Sometimes I just think about leaving (but I'm not going anywhere).
If you want to leave constructive feedback you're welcome to do so, but official critique is off because I can't guarantee I will actually come back to this one for any major changes. (I will of course still take any thoughts/suggestions into consideration, and appreciate them, I just don't want to feel like I've wasted your time.)
Sometimes I just think about leaving (but I'm not going anywhere).
If you want to leave constructive feedback you're welcome to do so, but official critique is off because I can't guarantee I will actually come back to this one for any major changes. (I will of course still take any thoughts/suggestions into consideration, and appreciate them, I just don't want to feel like I've wasted your time.)
Comments66
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Damn it.
You suicide note looks just like mine, only thought out and well-worded.
Seriously, how does this keep happening?
You suicide note looks just like mine, only thought out and well-worded.
Seriously, how does this keep happening?