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Best Famous Suicide Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Suicide poems. This is a select list of the best famous Suicide poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Suicide poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of suicide poems.

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Famous poems below this ad
Written by Emanuel Xavier |


 for Lindsay

knows the condom wrapped penetration 
of strangers and lovers, deep inside
only a tear away from risk

knows bare minimum t-cell level counts, 
replacing intoxicating cocktails
with jagged little pills

knows how to avoid a cure thanks to war
how to keep pharmaceutical corporations
and doctors in business

knows the weight loss desired 
by supermodels,
knows the fearless meaning of a friends genuine kiss or hug
converts non-believers to religion 
and spirituality

comprehends loneliness
values the support of luminaries
smiles at the solidarity 
of single red ribbons

knows to dim the lights 
to elude detection
how to shame someone into hiding
from the rest of the world
to be grateful for the gift of clothing 
and shelter,
to remain silent, holding back the anger and frustration

knows that time on earth 
is limited for all of us
that using lemons to make lemonade is better than drinking the Kool-Aid
but no matter how much you drink
you are always left dehydrated

knows working extensive hours
to pay hospital bills, 
the choice of survival
or taking pleasure in what is left of life

knows the solid white walls
you want to crash through 
and tear down
the thoughts of suicide 
in the back of your head

knows the prosperous could be doing more with their wealth
and that everyone still thinks it is a deserving fate- for gays,
drug addicts, prostitutes, 
and the unfortunate children of such
born into a merciless world of posh handbags and designer jewelry

knows how to be used as another percentage to profit politicians
knows it doesn’t only affect humans 
but animals too, without bias
-providing fodder for art and something to be left behind

if there is a God
he has disregarded our prayers
left his angels behind to journey along with us
-none of us knowing exactly 
where we are headed

Written by G K Chesterton |

A Ballad Of Suicide

 The gallows in my garden, people say,

Is new and neat and adequately tall; 
I tie the noose on in a knowing way

As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours—on the wall— 
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"

The strangest whim has seized me.
After all I think I will not hang myself to-day.
To-morrow is the time I get my pay— My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall— I see a little cloud all pink and grey— Perhaps the rector's mother will not call— I fancy that I heard from Mr.
Gall That mushrooms could be cooked another way— I never read the works of Juvenal— I think I will not hang myself to-day.
The world will have another washing-day; The decadents decay; the pedants pall; And H.
Wells has found that children play, And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall, Rationalists are growing rational— And through thick woods one finds a stream astray So secret that the very sky seems small— I think I will not hang myself to-day.
ENVOI Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; Even to-day your royal head may fall, I think I will not hang myself to-day

Written by Anne Sexton |

Suicide Note

 "You speak to me of narcissism but I reply that it is 
a matter of my life" - Artaud

"At this time let me somehow bequeath all the leftovers 
to my daughters and their daughters" - Anonymous

despite the worms talking to 
the mare's hoof in the field; 
despite the season of young girls 
dropping their blood; 
better somehow 
to drop myself quickly 
into an old room.
Better (someone said) not to be born and far better not to be born twice at thirteen where the boardinghouse, each year a bedroom, caught fire.
Dear friend, I will have to sink with hundreds of others on a dumbwaiter into hell.
I will be a light thing.
I will enter death like someone's lost optical lens.
Life is half enlarged.
The fish and owls are fierce today.
Life tilts backward and forward.
Even the wasps cannot find my eyes.
Yes, eyes that were immediate once.
Eyes that have been truly awake, eyes that told the whole story— poor dumb animals.
Eyes that were pierced, little nail heads, light blue gunshots.
And once with a mouth like a cup, clay colored or blood colored, open like the breakwater for the lost ocean and open like the noose for the first head.
Once upon a time my hunger was for Jesus.
O my hunger! My hunger! Before he grew old he rode calmly into Jerusalem in search of death.
This time I certainly do not ask for understanding and yet I hope everyone else will turn their heads when an unrehearsed fish jumps on the surface of Echo Lake; when moonlight, its bass note turned up loud, hurts some building in Boston, when the truly beautiful lie together.
I think of this, surely, and would think of it far longer if I were not… if I were not at that old fire.
I could admit that I am only a coward crying me me me and not mention the little gnats, the moths, forced by circumstance to suck on the electric bulb.
But surely you know that everyone has a death, his own death, waiting for him.
So I will go now without old age or disease, wildly but accurately, knowing my best route, carried by that toy donkey I rode all these years, never asking, “Where are we going?” We were riding (if I'd only known) to this.
Dear friend, please do not think that I visualize guitars playing or my father arching his bone.
I do not even expect my mother's mouth.
I know that I have died before— once in November, once in June.
How strange to choose June again, so concrete with its green breasts and bellies.
Of course guitars will not play! The snakes will certainly not notice.
New York City will not mind.
At night the bats will beat on the trees, knowing it all, seeing what they sensed all day.

More great poems below...

Written by Charles Bukowski |

The Icecream People

 the lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
however, things change overnight-- instead of listening to Shostakovich and Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke the nights change, new complexities: we drive to Baskin-Robbins, 31 flavors: Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint.
we park outside and look at icecream people a very healthy and satisfied people, nary a potential suicide in sight (they probably even vote) and I tell her "what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?" "come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave that flows about.
I feel like a leper in a beauty contest.
we finally get our sundaes and sit in the car and eat them.
I must admit they are quite good.
a curious new world.
(all my friends tell me I am looking better.
"you're looking good, man, we thought you were going to die there for a while.
") --those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the hospitals.
and later that night there is use for the pecker, use for love, and it is glorious, long and true, and afterwards we speak of easy things; our heads by the open window with the moonlight looking through, we sleep in each other's arms.
the icecream people make me feel good, inside and out.

Written by Lisa Zaran |

Love Is Believable

 love is believable 
in every moment of exhaustion 
in every heartbroken home 
in every dark spirit, 
the meaning unfolds.
in every night that sings of tomorrow.
in every suicide i carry deep inside my head.
in every lonely smile that plays across my lips.
love is believable i tell you, in every scrap of history, in every sheen of want.
what can be wrong that some days i have a tough time believing.
and in each chamber of my heart i pray.
Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2006

Written by Jackie Kay |

The Mother Poem (two)

 I always wanted to give birth
Do that incredible natural thing
That women do-I nearly broke down
When I heard we couldn't
And then my man said to me
Well there's always adoption
(we didn't have test tubes and the rest
then) and well even in the early sixties there was something
Scandalous about adopting
Telling the world your secret failure
Bringing up an alien child
Who knew what it would turn out to be?

But I wanted a baby badly
Didn't need to come from my womb
Or his seed for me to love it
And I had sisters who looked just like me
Didn't need carbon copy features
Blueprints for generations
It was my baby a baby a baby I wanted

So I watched my child grow
Always the first to hear her in the night
All this umbilical knot business is
Nonsense-the men can afford deeper sleeps
That's all.
I listened to hear her talk And when she did I heard my voice under hers And now some of her mannerisms Crack me up All them stories could have really had me Believing unless you are breast fed You'll never be close and the rest My daughter's warmth spills over me Leaves a gap When she's gone I think of her mother.
She remembers how I read her All those newspaper and magazine Cuttings about adoption She says her head's an encyclopedia Of sob stories: the ones that were never Told and committed suicide on their wedding nights I always believed in the telling anyhow You can't keep something like that secret I wanted her to think of her other mother Out there thinking that child I had will be Eight today nine today all the way up to God knows when.
I told my daughter; I bet your mother's never missed your birthday How could she Now when people say ah but It's not like having your own child though is it I say of course it is what else is it She's my child I have brought her up Told her stories wept at losses Laughed at her pleasures she is mine.
Well maybe that is why I don't Like all this talk about her being black I brought her up as my own As I would any other child Colour matters to the nuttters But she says my daughter says It matters to her.
I suppose there would have been things I couldn't have understood with any child We knew she was coloured They told us they had no babies at first And I chanced to say it didn't matter What colour it was and then they Said oh well are you sure in that case We have a baby for you To think she wasn't even thought of as a baby! My baby my baby.

Written by Robert Graves |

Call It a Good Marriage

 Call it a good marriage - 
For no one ever questioned 
Her warmth, his masculinity,
Their interlocking views;
Except one stray graphologist
Who frowned in speculation 
At her h's and her s's, 
His p's and w's.
Though few would still subscribe To the monogamic axiom That strife below the hip-bones Need not estrange the heart, Call it a good marriage: More drew those two together, Despite a lack of children, Than pulled them apart.
Call it a good marriage: They never fought in public, They acted circumspectly And faced the world with pride; Thus the hazards of their love-bed Were none of our damned business - Till as jurymen we sat on Two deaths by suicide.

Written by Charles Bukowski |

An Almost Made Up Poem

 I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you knew famous artists and most of them were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right, go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous because we’ never met.
we got close once in New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never touched.
so you went with the famous and wrote about the famous, and, of course, what you found out is that the famous are worried about their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed with them, who gives them that, and then awakens in the morning to write upper case poems about ANGELS AND GOD.
we know God is dead, they’ told us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure.
maybe it was the upper case.
you were one of the best female poets and I told the publishers, editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’ magic.
there’ no lie in her fire.
” I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of.
I would have loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom, but that didn’ happen.
your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you.
kid, I wrote back, all lovers betray.
it didn’ help.
you said you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying bench every night and wept for the lovers who had hurt and forgotten you.
I wrote back but never heard again.
a friend wrote me of your suicide 3 or 4 months after it happened.
if I had met you I would probably have been unfair to you or you to me.
it was best like this.

Written by Sylvia Plath |

Electra On Azalea Path

 The day you died I went into the dirt,
Into the lightless hibernaculum
Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard.
It was good for twenty years, that wintering -- As if you never existed, as if I came God-fathered into the world from my mother's belly: Her wide bed wore the stain of divinity.
I had nothing to do with guilt or anything When I wormed back under my mother's heart.
Small as a doll in my dress of innocence I lay dreaming your epic, image by image.
Nobody died or withered on that stage.
Everything took place in a durable whiteness.
The day I woke, I woke on Churchyard Hill.
I found your name, I found your bones and all Enlisted in a cramped necropolis your speckled stone skewed by an iron fence.
In this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead Crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower Breaks the soil.
This is Azalea path.
A field of burdock opens to the south.
Six feet of yellow gravel cover you.
The artificial red sage does not stir In the basket of plastic evergreens they put At the headstone next to yours, nor does it rot, Although the rains dissolve a bloody dye: The ersatz petals drip, and they drip red.
Another kind of redness bothers me: The day your slack sail drank my sister's breath The flat sea purpled like that evil cloth My mother unrolled at your last homecoming.
I borrow the silts of an old tragedy.
The truth is, one late October, at my birth-cry A scorpion stung its head, an ill-starred thing; My mother dreamed you face down in the sea.
The stony actors poise and pause for breath.
I brought my love to bear, and then you died.
It was the gangrene ate you to the bone My mother said: you died like any man.
How shall I age into that state of mind? I am the ghost of an infamous suicide, My own blue razor rusting at my throat.
O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at Your gate, father -- your hound-bitch, daughter, friend.
It was my love that did us both to death.

Written by Robert William Service |

My Suicide

 I've often wondered why
Old chaps who choose to die
In evil passes,
Before themselves they slay,
Invariably they
Take off their glasses?

As I strolled by the Castle cliff
An oldish chap I set my eyes on,
Who stood so singularly stiff
And stark against the blue horizon;
A poet fashioning a sonnet,
I thought - how rapt he labours on it!

And then I blinked and stood astare,
And questioned at my sight condition,
For I was seeing empty air -
He must have been an apparition.
Amazed I gazed .
no one was there: My sanity roused my suspicion.
I strode to where I saw him stand So solitary in the sun - Nothing! just empty sew and land, no smallest sign of anyone.
While down below I heard the roar Of waves, five hundred feet or more.
I had been drinking, I confess; There was confusion in my brain, And I was feeling more or less The fumes of overnight champagne.
So standing on that dizzy shelf: "You saw no one," I told myself.
"No need to call the local law, For after all its not your business.
You just imagined what you saw .
" Then I was seized with sudden dizziness: For at my feet, beyond denying, A pair of spectacles were lying.
And so I simply let them lie, And sped from that accursed spot.
No lover of the police am I, And sooner would be drunk than not.
"I'll scram," said I, "and leave the locals To find and trace them dam bi-focals.

Written by Lisa Zaran |


 I went looking for God 
but I found you instead.
Bad luck or destiny, you decide.
Buried in the muck, the soot of the city, sorrow for an appetite, devil on your left shoulder, angel on your right.
You, with your thorny rhythms and tragic, midnight melodies.
My heart never tried to commit suicide before.
Originally published in Literati Magazine, Winter 2005 Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2005

Written by Robert William Service |

A Song Of Suicide

 Deeming that I were better dead,
"How shall I kill myself?" I said.
Thus mooning by the river Seine I sought extinction without pain, When on a bridge I saw a flash Of lingerie and heard a splash .
So as I am a swimmer stout I plunged and pulled the poor wretch out.
The female that I saved? Ah yes, To yield the Morgue of one corpse the less, Apart from all heroic action, Gave me a moral satisfaction.
was she an old and withered hag, Too tired of life to long to lag? Ah no, she was so young and fair I fell in love with her right there.
And when she took me to her attic Her gratitude was most emphatic.
A sweet and simple girl she proved, Distraught because the man she loved In battle his life-blood had shed .
So I, too, told her of my dead, The girl who in a garret grey Had coughed and coughed her life away.
Thus as we sought our griefs to smother, With kisses we consoled each other .
And there's the ending of my story; It wasn't grim, it wasn't gory.
For comforted were hearts forlorn, And from black sorrow joy was born: So may our dead dears be forgiving, And bless the rapture of the living.

Written by Dorothy Parker |

Rhyme Against Living

 If wild my breast and sore my pride,
I bask in dreams of suicide;
If cool my heart and high my head,
I think, "How lucky are the dead!"

Written by Anne Sexton |


 It is snowing and death bugs me
as stubborn as insomnia.
The fierce bubbles of chalk, the little white lesions settle on the street outside.
It is snowing and the ninety year old woman who was combing out her long white wraith hair is gone, embalmed even now, even tonight her arms are smooth muskets at her side and nothing issues from her but her last word - "Oh.
" Surprised by death.
It is snowing.
Paper spots are falling from the punch.
Hello? Mrs.
Death is here! She suffers according to the digits of my hate.
I hear the filaments of alabaster.
I would lie down with them and lift my madness off like a wig.
I would lie outside in a room of wool and let the snow cover me.
Paris white or flake white or argentine, all in the washbasin of my mouth, calling, "Oh.
" I am empty.
I am witless.
Death is here.
There is no other settlement.
Snow! See the mark, the pock, the pock! Meanwhile you pour tea with your handsome gentle hands.
Then you deliberately take your forefinger and point it at my temple, saying, "You suicide bitch! I'd like to take a corkscrew and screw out all your brains and you'd never be back ever.
" And I close my eyes over the steaming tea and see God opening His teeth.
" He says.
I see the child in me writing, "Oh.
" Oh, my dear, not why.

Written by Lewis Carroll |

Lays of Sorrow

 The day was wet, the rain fell souse
Like jars of strawberry jam, [1] a
sound was heard in the old henhouse,
A beating of a hammer.
Of stalwart form, and visage warm, Two youths were seen within it, Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry At a hundred strokes [2] a minute.
The work is done, the hen has taken Possession of her nest and eggs, Without a thought of eggs and bacon, [3] (Or I am very much mistaken happy) She turns over each shell, To be sure that all's well, Looks into the straw To see there's no flaw, Goes once round the house, [4] Half afraid of a mouse, Then sinks calmly to rest On the top of her nest, First doubling up each of her legs.
Time rolled away, and so did every shell, "Small by degrees and beautifully less," As the large mother with a powerful spell [5] Forced each in turn its contents to express, [6] But ah! "imperfect is expression," Some poet said, I don't care who, If you want to know you must go elsewhere, One fact I can tell, if you're willing to hear, He never attended a Parliament Session, For I'm certain that if he had ever been there, Full quickly would he have changed his ideas, With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers.
And as to his name it is pretty clear That it wasn't me and it wasn't you! And so it fell upon a day, (That is, it never rose again) A chick was found upon the hay, Its little life had ebbed away.
No longer frolicsome and gay, No longer could it run or play.
"And must we, chicken, must we part?" Its master [7] cried with bursting heart, And voice of agony and pain.
So one, whose ticket's marked "Return", [8] When to the lonely roadside station He flies in fear and perturbation, Thinks of his home--the hissing urn-- Then runs with flying hat and hair, And, entering, finds to his despair He's missed the very last train.
[9] Too long it were to tell of each conjecture Of chicken suicide, and poultry victim, The deadly frown, the stern and dreary lecture, The timid guess, "perhaps some needle pricked him!" The din of voice, the words both loud and many, The sob, the tear, the sigh that none could smother, Till all agreed "a shilling to a penny It killed itself, and we acquit the mother!" Scarce was the verdict spoken, When that still calm was broken, A childish form hath burst into the throng; With tears and looks of sadness, That bring no news of gladness, But tell too surely something hath gone wrong! "The sight I have come upon The stoutest heart [10] would sicken, That nasty hen has been and gone And killed another chicken!"