Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership


Narrative Suicide Poems | Narrative Poems About Suicide

These Narrative Suicide poems are examples of Narrative poems about Suicide. These are the best examples of Narrative Suicide poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

Details | Narrative | |

Where Were You

He looked at me with
begging eyes,

Hiding in his own world.

All knew his looks,
But none knew him.

No one realized
who he was.

Alone, desperate.

Then one day,
Everyone closed in on him

Their daggers pointing
At the only feeling he had:

Sorrow.

He let out a sob
One small sob that told them everything

They walked away.
But they never ceased to push and shove him

Dislocating his heart and putting sorrow to his words.

They never realized
What they were doing

Until it was too late.

He put a sword to his heart and said,
"I love you, mom and dad, but now it's time for me to go."

Stabbing his heart,
He cried.

He lay there, his cold and still body radiating sorrow

The others never glanced,
But I looked at him.

I carried him out,
Not understanding why others would do this.

When we held a funeral,
Some said he was kind and so I asked,

"Where were you when he needed you?"


Details | Narrative | |

My beloved wife

My beloved wife

It was the crows calling that gave the final warning on this mid October morning.
Just as the mist began falling upon the hills in a strange manner that was almost unnerving.
This morn shall be my final calling as my soul begins souring high above the clouds on this mid October morning.
Signalled by the single rose placed upon my coffin.
Not a healthy rose but one that's wilting, It's red petals fading and it's leaves browning.
It was placed upon my coffin by a loan woman who stands morning on this bitter October morning.

She turns towards home and begins walking, towards my old manor house that now stands rotting.
She passes the spot in the garden where she hid the knife the other morning, just before the police came calling.
Alerted by the chamber maid screaming upon discovering by body laying bleeding.
Murder was the diagnosis, probably by a burglar was the prognosis.
The window was broken and my jewellery was stolen.
They didn't bother to ask about the missing kitchen knife, it was all falling into place for my dearly beloved wife.

As she approached she questions what she saw, large boards placed upon the entrance door.
Upon the door a sign held by a single rusty nail, it read this property is now for sale.
Due to deceased occupants an auction will now take place, in gods grace she calls out from behind her veil of lace.
This can't be true, I felt the morning dew seep through into my newly bought shoe, she pauses for breath as she begins to think things through.
Now the truth begins dawning that it was her soul and not her body that left the hill this morning.
We are now two souls exploring, one up and one down on this bitter October morning.


Details | Narrative | |

Gone Girl

Gone Girl.....

That razor blade
Is her paint brush/
That canvas... Is her wrist
Her rush
Of blood/ To her head/
Means/
She's been painting deep into her flesh!.....

Her pain is still aching/
Her hands dripping with blood
She couldnt stop shaking/
That Paint brush Soaked up
Some of her pain/
Still a broken girl remained
Staring out her window pain

Heading down that lonely road/
she plagued/
with illness/ depression state/
Raged/ is reckoning/
taking over her brain/
every thought is plagued/
With depression/That's she been trying to escape/
But she trapped/ She feels she's been raped/
Of her old self/ She screaming
But no one seems to help/
She yelled/
With noone there except her self/

She so sick of seeing her reflection everywhere/
So she smashed up every single mirror/
She can't face her fears/
Her demons are over so powering its clear/
What she must do/
She thinks these only one way out/
And its now time over due

To get away from her broken home/
She Tried not to show/ no emotion/
But she holds emotion In/
like a renowned poet/ Whos constantly Going back over it/
So its now her time to go...

No love/So the blood stains/
Remained/
On her paint brush!

A broken child/ with a broken smile!
That never should have gave up/
She painted her face with clown make up/
With a Smiley face
To hide the frown/Because beneath that make up/
Her tears fell to the ground/ Where depression held her down..
But she never cried out loud/ She was way too proud

But her parents love soon departed/
In fact they never new she was an art-ist!
She kept It secret/
Until the day she cut too far
Barely missing her main art-eries

They never knew about her secret world behide her wardrobe/
If you could switch roles/
And go into HER mind of a broken soul/
And you'll find out how far the rabbit hole goes/

Her secret past/
Came back to haute her/
No one saw that masterpiece/
called "the crying daughter"/
Would it be a masterpiece/
If she was still hear today/
That's remains to be said/
let me paint the picture for you..Instead/
That Paint splattered covered In red/
Covers her face but can't cover
Those whispering noises/
In her head/
There Getting lounder/
She is screaming but she feels voiceless/
In the world that now surrounds her/

She now paints deep into her flesh 
So she can escape that madness, 
If not for one hour or one second
She's now a drug addifted felon
Who never learnt her lesson

Her hand is steady
She feels ready
To force the razor blade deep into her flesh.....
Her wrist now blead, dripping
Onto the cold bathroom floor
Those noises whispering
In her head Fade
Only for
Her to wake

The room is white
Not like/ her bathroom
This one is bright...
Nurse she awake!

Her silent screams
That have become so deadly
Her nightmares are now her dreams
She thinks she not worthy
Of life, Not knowing why she decides
To die...

Tears rolling down her face
As she heads to the bathroom and grabs 
The razor blade
She forces the sharp blade across her wrist once again

Im telling you her story she confessed
As the medics,Didn't make it in time
She lying on floor dead
Her poem left, in her hand that read....

The deep dark red 
That Paint now pours 
Onto the cold floor
My body cold
The pain fades away
Along with my soul
Im Finally falling into an endless sleep
No Screams/ Just a faint sound of sirens
No more crying/ I finally feel complete
With nothing but complete.. Silence.

Credits most go to another poetry soup member
for the opening line,not sure who but i remember seeing it
and thought i would add my own thoughts to it.
That razor blade
Is her paint brush/
That canvas... Is her wrist


Details | Narrative | |

It Was Me

You were taken to soon.
Ripped away from us.
You knew it was our final goodbye.
But the truth was hidden.
With a tear in your eye,
There was one last goodnight hug.
I wiped away the tear,
Then smiled and walked away.
By the time of the morning light
It was already too late.
You were gone and to a better place.
Never knew of your acknowledged your pain.
Of your suffering
Sometimes I wonder,
"If I only cared more
Would you still be here?
If I only hurt less,
Would you still be here?"
I'd deny it if I could.
But inside we both know,
I am the reason
You went away.


Details | Narrative | |

She

                              She
She’s ugly?
Well maybe yes she is,
All ‘cuz she never wears make up
And tries not to fake it up.
She’s too clingy?
Well maybe yes she is,
All ‘cuz she doesn’t want you to forget her love
No matter how much it gets tough.
She’s rude?
Well maybe yes she is,
All ‘cuz of fear of losing herself
And thinking there’s no one else to help.
She’s a creep?
Well maybe yes she is,
All ‘cuz she’s better and you secretly envy
Still you never know how much her thoughts lie.
She’s a pain?
Well maybe yes she is,
But not to you, to her for sure,
Always losing and always bruising.
She’s a bitch?
Well maybe yes she is,
All ‘cuz she stands whatever is against her pride
And doesn’t let her hate hide.
She’s a slut?
Well maybe yes she is, 
The reality is, you made her one
All ‘cuz she talks to every sad guy.
She should disappear?
Well maybe yes,
She tried, and is trying every day, every moment.
With note of blood and feelings in her hands,
With stories and days recorded in her sorrow land,
With a silent cry in every breath she takes,
With a silent scream in every tear she sheds.
She lies and lies to make else smile
She gets weaker and weaker in every battle she fights.
Suddenly, those words and criticism don’t work anymore,
Slow and slow her thoughts give up.
No one know did she win or leave up?
Now you cant even question her.
‘cuz she’s no more able to answer.
Maybe that was the way she chose to wash away everything
And maybe this was the last thing she ever wrote.
Maybe she was me.


Details | Narrative | |

The Addiction Of Bipolar

I wake to cold sweats scratches
From Sleeping on this broken mattress
Outside is cold but its my home, My palace
My brain crashes from this addiction
I so I need that fix to get me back high
I'm trying to fix the broken pieces missing inside
I've seen heroin take my best friends life
Yet I still inject it, Why? 
Why wont this addiction just Roll over
Now I'm diseased with this thing called bi polar
A world trapped in eternal sadness
For others beautiful for some so numb
While I'm covered in an eternal blackness
They say I need to take these pills before 
I turn to madness
But there my thorn digging my side
As sharp as a cactus 
No wonder I have this cuts of pure madness
Because it aches stomach pains Nausea vomiting, Insomnia
Give me a story of drama
But then my dis honer
Had to cut my wrist to see that this blood
is thicker than is vodka
Slowly sinking under water
Holding a ton of bricks on my shoulder
Only makes me stronger
In order to move on we have to see the rain
live through the pain
before we get that sunshine once again!