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Prose Poetry Suicide Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Suicide

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

drifting

I tied a balloon to my heart,
  and watched it float away
up up up
( 1416 days since your suicide )
  heading off towards Cheyenne,
( where you were a girl )
  slowly, foolishly drifting you down.

As you left, so have I,
  Like a figure cut from a picture,
  and poorly pasted back.
Among/upon the picture,
 but no longer, of it.

I shall put a smile over the hole it left,
  and stoically wait out this body,
  cueing up an "I'm OK"
  to club those who ask.
Hoping to not be damned
  with too many decades.

Because, I have learned you 
  have not left me.
Every time I work at higher math,
every time I focus on science,
every time I revisit the place
we worked together, 

there you are. 
 
And the hole my heart left 
turns cold and numb,
and I descend into (hidden) tears
and crumble into despair.

A logic bomb to blow a hole
  in my head, 
to match the one in my chest.

Love ties us together, 
  and draws me after you.

Wait up, dear.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

I want you to know

I know a girl more broken than the aftermath of a bull in a china shop. She knows that her pain wont stop, so instead of trying to fix that, she only ever tries to make others happy. She puts everyone above herself and if life was a shelf shed be the ground. The most common sound escaping her lips is sorry. She cries herself to sleep every night, she has cuts on her arms as if too tally up all the hate she receives daily and if she could pay the bills in blood she would be able to afford a living. Lately all she's been doing is forgiving. 

	I want you to know that it's always darkest before the dawn, so if you have to wait another hour for the sun to rise, I will sit beside you with a watch and a red bull the size that two people need to keep them up just long enough to fall asleep together. If the weather is on our side or not, I will stay just to make sure you know you stay up long enough for that sun to rise. It's not a surprise when it does, and if it means you've gone a day without painting in blood, I will do what it takes to keep you from it another day. I suppose what I mean to say is;  

	Put it down. Just pretend its not there; let it disappear into thin air without a hair of a trace, because all it ever does is hurt you. those cuts mark the scars of your pain that will never fade. Cut into your skin, you don't remember the beginning, but you can find the end. Send a message to all the people that made you start, you're a work of art that just has a splatter; it doesn't matter, you can paint over it. Just sit down and look around you. You've built so many walls. You're trapped in a labyrinth made to keep people out but in turn you've locked yourself in. You can't climb the walls, all you hear is the echoed calls of your pain. 

	If you search for a while, maybe you'll find another face trapped in their own maze and you'll both smile; because it's comforting to know that you're not alone. Maybe that person you meet can give you a boost over your wall so you land feet first in grass. You don't need to ask, they're still there; trapped in the maze. Its sad how the price of happiness is almost always someone else's pain.

	PART ONE


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Final Fire In the Hall of The Mountain King

Sweet were the days though too few in number
When dread was lain over all tomorrows
By those whom upon the Rod of Asclepius swore
Sending him to seek solace
And pass by unseen
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

A blue star burned cold upon his brow
In the darkness to proclaim his coming
To this place he claimed
As the home of his heart
To play his part in this most sacred scene
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

Alone he arrived 
To no greeting or welcome
But gladness filled him all-the-same
No company would be kept
For this final thing
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

There were no songs in the Hall
No one to sing
Of loves lost or left behind
Succored and scoured
By compulsive dream
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

No proof against arms was his armor
Though many times it had saved him
Against ravage and rage of weather
Their service no longer in need
He laid them before him in offering
To the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

Although weakened, quickly he kindled 
The first glowing embers
Coached them and coaxed them
So fragile and nascent 
Till they brought into being
The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

His presence in this hostile home
Alone would suffice
No grief-stricken children
Or wailing of women
No beeps or buzzes of cold machines
Only the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

He dreamt of the First Dawn of his absence
And was surprised it weighed nothing
Against the many that he was graced to see
Contentedly he caressed them
Comfortable in his memory
By the Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King.

His star dimmed slowly before the First Dawn
With dignity dwindled the last flickering flames 
As cold grew the King 
On his throne of Stone
Set free near the ashes 
Of The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King

Then Alpenglow burst the first rays of day
Round the only monument 
To a life lived like lightning burst forth from the storm
So proud stood the peak 
Glad alone to have seen
The Final Fire in the Hall of the Mountain King


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Suicide: A Path to Freedom

Why is it when someone go kill them self 
That they always have to go for such a violent way?
Is your life so miserable?
Wouldn't you want to go pain free?
To become pain free
In order for the deed to be done
A violent way is the only option
Is there something wrong with that picture?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Apparitions

A stone bridge in the middle of a wood, static in eternity, grand in height and darkened by the growing night. 
Upon it sits a man, his legs and mind yearning for the ground below. He is a good man.
His mind overthrown by rage, his cause forgotten by the rest of them, his paltry family and  buried friends.
A stranger approaches from the dark to cross the stone structure, he is old and unafraid, for the hour was late.
"It is dangerous to be seated up there, do you plan to fall?"
Yes.
"What have you done?"
Done?
"Yes, what have done that is so wrong that you must fall?"
Nothing, I have done nothing.
"Then why?"
The hour is late, my mind destructive, I am alone and have succumbed to hatred.
"Hate. Is it not close to love?"
I do not know.
"Then allow me to tell you."
I will not, for you do not know me.
"Have you said your farewells?"
Farewells are not needed, why must you talk? I wish to be alone.
"I talk to you because you are here. It would be strange for me not to play the enquirer. Have you loved? Have you lived? Have you felt all emotion?"
Questions are not needed. Be on your way.
"As you wish."
The old man walks into the freshly grown darkness, until he is gone from sight, his footsteps sound no more. His questions now ever present.
A stone bridge in the middle of a wood, static in eternity, grand in height and illuminated by the growing morning.






Details | Prose Poetry | |

Emotional Suicide

Murdered emotions sink deeper into oblivion.  
Held captive in a tortured husk of defeat.  
Their shadows wait patiently for my last fetid breath.  
Then they may be released.  
For suicide is close to me. 
A silken whisper that glides among my thoughts. 
A tiny shard with backwards barbs, 
which rip the soul upon trying to evict it.  
A deceitful promise of forgiven slumber, 
within a pool of blood.  
A quiet idea upon which I sit.  
Icy tears chafe the skin of a hollow shell.  
Leaving acrid scars, seen in my mirror.  
My eyes behold my Hell.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Freefalling

Three. Two. One. Screams of excitement, with a little bit of death in each roar. Disturbing the serenity of the big blue sky, piercing the atmosphere through a rebellious dive. I let gravity take control, putting my delicate life in her hands.


Swarm of suicidal thoughts each time he springs from the aircraft’s door. Floating in the air. Embracing the silence around him. Feeling his racing heart beats break through his rib-cage. The rush and thrill of dying always makes him contemplate the value of life. Up there, there is no worry. Up there, there is bliss.  A disapproving wife, not having locked eyes in years. Merciless children, all that remains are the photos on the living room desk. A receptionist job, growing insane from the accumulation of those counterfeited smiles. Up there, there is no worry. Up there, there is perfection. Approaching the ground, inner demons yell ‘do not pull that parachute cord!’ Rashly weighing the options in hand. What is the point in returning to a disgusting routine called life? The skin on his forehead quickly folds, his eyes are tightly shut. No reason for a man not to take his own life the way he pleases. A beeping noise from his wrist awakens him each time; at 2,500 feet the cord is cowardly pulled. With regret and pain, he reenters his home. Another promise broken, another promise made.


Freefalling into the sky, I finally understand. The ironic beauty of being, the verge of death.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

For Jamie

My cigarette was nearly out, 
and I exhaled smoke that whispered 
death in my ears. I had an itch.
 It called my hand toward my forearm, 
and I let a finger run across it’s inside.
 I could see the blood flow out of his flesh,
 tears soaked his skin, 
and it rained in my mind. 
I miss him so much, my brother of rage.
 He was a whirlwind, a torrent of a man 
that blew across this world like a storm. 
Now the only lightning he can offer are 
strikes of memories of people that loved him, 
I am one of them. 
When people saw that burly viking like creature,
 they gaped in fearful judgment. 
I pity them, he was a book with a heavy cover,
 with pages of loyalty and adventure inside.
 A true friend, 
it burns to think of the afflictions he kept
 within that made such a strong soul give in. 
I take one more breath of smoke, 
and throw the butt of that fading fire 
toward the sky and let it die. 

” I miss you.”

-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled 8

Appearing from nowhere, a red stain in my colourless 
vision, I found them cold in the whiteness of the first 

snowfall. They lay there in the misty haze, stunned to silence,
smothered in their white blanket; that splendid state 

beyond shivering. All the swans are dead, their bodies 
melt, reclaimed by the snow. I watch myself in their vacant eyes,

staring out at me, as if I’m some kind of god- the sun’s 
sparkle has faded; black mirrors, an onyx iris. With wings

contorted, they lay limp, their broken necks hanging like empty white bags, 
their once-upon-a-time white feathers twitching in the wind, the veins

on their sagging skins unwrapped, all speckled with flashes 
of ruby, brighter than fire, and just as untameable. This

scalded mess looks at me; the ends molt through, peeping like scared 
children, and crawl along my frozen skin; it’s almost

pleading, the red ocean growing and overflowing, staining 
the pinking dirt. They are all equal here, entwined in strands that slither

like embracing fingers, numb to the bone from the biting frost; iced
to perfection, inseparable chunks. From high above in the black sky, he saw

it all, creaming with knowledge- watching through his terrible spyhole,
that ghostly hue that bones this new aurora’s gleam with sallow blemishes.

This scene infects me; I circle the remains in awe and continue; this sight’s 
colouring me green:  it is over; they are finished, laying in the soiled snow.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

For The Fire

For The Fire

My life as a piece of driftwood.
Passing through rivers and streams
swimming into the ocean of hopes
and dreams.

Until a saving hand introduced a warmth
I was dried and soaked under the sun
I almost forgot the days and night
of my aimless run.

Like a dead I too had gone
to the depths of my imagined grave
but the turn of tides brought me ashore
I always ask the heavens that I might reach it.

I was hanged,
I was heated,
I was consumed,
I slowly cried.

To be a part of something I had never been
to be a part of a whole
under a Master's Scheme.
Just to be a part of you and perish.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled 13

There's no through road so
with iced courage and steeled breath
She opens each scarlet line,
watching each blank page wave in the wind.
She renounces, orphaning it through self sacrifice and,
through Her crimson puddles,
She sees the barren paths- untrodden-
retreat as the oven scolds the cake inside.
It leeches, and Her skin, the colour of sour milk,
is creaming, each foam washing away the marked gold sand.
It's too late, the clock's already struck and chimed
for the still unborn - stillborn unborn.
Enclosing, the bud swallows the bee,
it's shallow heart fading,
like the bleaching sun drying the caterpillar.
She collapses, clasping, dragging Her burden with Her


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Suppression of Suicide

I sat there,
"My God, I can't take another day"
my mind cried;
 My heart was so cold and black...

"Look at yourself", 
I looked in the mirror... 

"You have turned into a Monster, 
you are no longer living,
You are a zombie."..


"You love him so much, 
but look at what is happening"...
Life isn't worth living...

This is not love, 
this is not what I want out of Life, 
This is Madness...  

"Does he really love you?"...

Yes, he does---
I don't know...
He doesn't stop me from the things I do... 

All I know is I really love him...
 
I want to Die!!!
But what would he do?..
What would he feel, 
if he found me dead here?..
 
I wrote this little note 11-14-1996 that night:  
Telling him I love him and will always love him... 

I don't want to die and hurt him, 
if I killed myself, 
"Then it would hurt him!".. 

I wished he really believed me... 
I wish this nightmare would go away... 
Why can't he accept the fact that I'll never leave him?.. 
How do I know he'll stay?..

I know how he feels, 
I know why he feels the way he does about me... 
I feel the same... 

Why am I repeating 
this stupid feeling of rejection?.. 
Why, do I care if he leaves me or not?.. 

I got a nice spot to be buried, somewhere..

I know the other side is much better... 
I'll get a new body, another life... 
I don't want to die unloved... 
I don't want to die alone... 
I don't want to hurt someone I love... 

Maybe he'll join me, 
maybe he won't... 

Whatever he chooses, 
I'll never stop loving him... 
I'll wait for him forever... 

He'll blame himself if I die... 
But it's not his fault... 

I should of spoken up... 
We both should of been more open... 
We should of communicated more... 
I don't know?..

I guess we were really scared of one another!!!
                                                                   
"Feelings of Death" 11-14-1996


Details | Prose Poetry | |

you said

you said to me once - that 
you would let me know - if 
there was anything I could - do
to help

and at the end, lying in that
hospital
all your futures lost to an
unlabeled sickness
all your brilliant pasts
standing in stark relief with
the pain

you must have not thought ...
that I could do anything to
help,

but

you were wrong. you were
you were you were

'cause I could have come to you, 
and held your hand,
and looked into your eyes,

and left with you.

i could have kept you from being
alone

and myself from being left behind


Details | Prose Poetry | |

beads

A bead of red rolls down my arm,
an eloquent prayer, a scream.
Alive in a way the arm is not
coming awake in a dream.

A drop of swirling living cells,
abandoning a foundered host,
drawing a line on the curve of meat,
segregating machine from ghost.

Cousins drop from a fluttering lid,
another line following a tear,
rolling along a wrinkly nose,
washing away horror, sorrow and fear.

life turned liquid
flesh to dust
aspirations unmet
iron will to rust

either

[ caught between galaxy and quark
a trivial flame in the dark
nothing cares that a mind was here
the flicker of a trivial spark ]

or

[ as my eyes dim, and drop finds drop
your voice, Erin, fills my mind
your hand reaching out to help me forth
horror sorror fear left behind ]


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Death don't lie

Death don't lie,
You love or hate;
Death is true as you breath;
Birth may cheat and die, 
But death don't lie;
Birth comes once;
Death is oft,
Truth of endless fright,
lingers on till you die;
Death lives side by side,
Do good or bad yet you die,
You do good you still live,
If no space in world,
You live in heart;


©Sadashivan nair


Details | Prose Poetry | |

i am

i am
a softly glowing spark
looking out of these eyes, driving
this meat machine around,
feeling my way forward

a memory bank holding
my treasures, a library of embers and
shadows, glowing itself, growing
here while bits there fade away

a soft thumping heart, saying
i wish i wish i wish
as the spark sits in the shadow
where you once lived.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Speaking of Suicide

When folks get angry they rant and rave,
Some scream epitaphs,
others misbehave,

The really high strung
spew words of self hatred,
the drama occupies their minds,
venting is a way of chastising themselves,
or asking for help,

Words come out from their inner elves,
chanting tirades of ending one's life,
brings soberness and sheds light,

People who are serious don't talk about it
at all,
They may write a note and say "Goodbye Y'all"
Then one day they wake-up  and decide it
is their time......
Ending it all with no reason or rhyme.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

where she was

A splash of gold
lines the doors to her soul

Intelligence burning
like a flashlight
through a keyhole
into a dark room.

Wrinkly nose reflex
when you score a hit
and your minds sing together

Her voice her voice her voice
captured, a poor portrait

of a goddess.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

burning

eyes screaming, out of the smoke
out of the flame
out of the meat

all pretension
all aspiration
whither in the heat and flame

of seeing you walk away

of seeing the light turned on
roaches scuttling into the shadow
my mind, revealed as junk
as scum
as waste

in your absence

i stand (crouch) 
a stink in the clear air

a mistake

waiting for when i truly
truly

fail

as i failed you
as i did not rush to your side
offer my flesh my skin my heart

let you despair, let you die
helped you 

leave


Details | Prose Poetry | |

trails

these skis look like hell,
old, scraped and gouged
but still they carry me
down this dark white trail

I've learned to keep myself upright
stumbles earlier almost forgotten
jerks who pulled or pushed me over,
fading/falling behind me

its cold now, snow fills the air
as I turn a corner, trees inches away
my poor and dirty clothes
still sufficient to keep me warm

and there she is, coming from
a different trail, forming up
to my left her eyes flickering at me
as mine lock on her

and she is just perfect. Easy
grace in opposition to my brute force
beautiful outfit, new skis
and a ready confident smile.

She yells, 'hi!' and I say 'sup?!'

as the trail turns, our speeds matched
we start turning, towards and away,
an impromptu dance, snow filling the air
the wind and hiss our only music

faster now as the trail drops away
and for one perfect moment, we
both catch air together
flying now

turning a tight corner, I look over
and find her .
.
.
gone.

Reflex viciously kicks out my skis
and I come to a snow-cloud stop.
eyes spinning everywhere, thinking
where are you?

A separate turning, a different trail?
She's nowhere I can see, nowhere I can
help
not with me anymore.

and my skis are old, my clothes dirty
but the person I was uphill,
is no longer here.
don't feel like skiing anymore.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

now

now, 

lie me here in this soft bed
lie me here, 'life' playing out around me
lie me here, my heart pushing futile blood.

a foolish heart, dead so many years now.


E ... its now just 268 days, since you 

killed

yourself. and, lookitme ... 
whole days are going by without tears. 

without my descending into
a shredder of sorrow, 
without my world dissolving in the absolute certainty

that i am worthless here
that the moments I spend here
without you
are useless. 
are torture. are

mediocre.

beats my foolish heart, 
calling back to barracks the slaughtered regiment. 
empty building robbed of the promise of noise.

quiet now, 
as dust dances 
through the windows, 
through the doors, 
spinning exactly like the lost soldiers are not.

wait me here, 
while the clock runs out. 
looking not behind me, where I can still find you, 
nor beside me, where the illusion spins out, 
but ever forward, 
where I see your golden hair, wrinkly nose smile, 
and slender hand,

reaching back towards me.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

for a time

I dreamed for a time, 
as I walked with you, 
that I was an ascendant being. 
Now that you have left me, 
am I doomed to wake?


Either

you were a guide to my lost soul,
leading me from the sewer and swamp,
reminding a confused heart
that I too could glow.

Or

you rained light down upon me,
such that I confused
immersion 
with
absorption,
radiant warmth for internal glow.

So

wait a moment, dear, while
I catch up, deferring
the question, while
I bask in you.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

dark now

i see you
standing in the cold quiet snow,
watching me through the night
through the dark

I see us
talking together once more
sprites nostalgic for a superior game

I see me
counting now the moments
till this now boring sim
stops

and I can meet you in the room
of remembrance
and bow to you,
conceding a perfect game.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Suicide Promoters

There are Haters in society
who only seek to bring  grief 
to others,
causing them pain and
uncomfortabilities,
encouraging good people to sink
beneath their capabilities,
robbers of self-esteem and confidence,
They'll tear another down,
until they hurt themselves,
The objective is to eliminate the
competition,
but their "comeuppance" happens
when God anticipates their lead,
doing a 360 on their evil deeds.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

3Fabel3 Part Two

The day was almost over the length of shadows added to the horror the suicided 
failure as eye kicked the step away from the very air eye breathed only to discover 
that the rope that eye had lengthened only added more to links already there until 
my feet quite reached the floor and the suicide was haltered when the noose 
quite simply hit the floor. Yes eye commited suicide yet now eye am still quite 
alive and living in my love. Eye have uncovered the secret of the screen the 
gamma rays are there in the background when they are lessoned the blue turns 
dark there is a control eye found marked cool. The computer hurts my lidded 
brow much less now. Blackstone's characterization of property rights as "sole 
and despotic dominion which one man claims and exercises over the external 
things of the world, in total exclusion of the right of any other individual in the 
universe," the exercise of this fabel is now exercised for ewe she owns the 
poems too. 
          Hemp Rope 

Natural hemp rope, hand-twisted in Romania into 50 foot bundles of various 
diameters. Made from dry-spun hemp yarns, this rope is traditional hemp rope 
unchanged and in continuous use for centuries. Naturally mold and mildew 
resistant, this rope is suited for outdoor as well as indoor use. A classic product 
with a truly rustic and natural look. You'll get years of use for out of this hemp 
rope regardless of the application. 
Look at this last line gentile reader a glitch most certainly or just a mistranslation 
it must be why the eye is still alive and the rope just did not hang me. The Law of 
Blackstone is now the one of Livingstone eye presume. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

haunting

Erin,

Dead flesh accretes as I age
as I die
as I too slowly join you

I am not I-that-knew-you
anymore

I am immigrant cells, inhabitants
squatting in a once holy land

The flesh that touched you
flakes
The ears that heard you,
the eyes that loved you,
replaced

The heart that beat your name
gone
a simple pump
takes its place

A confused mind realizes
the memories of you
are not mine
belonging instead to
he-who-was

I do not belong
in this dusty mansion.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

audience

Your symphony cut short. 
My heart rings with the tension 
of your unresolved fugues. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

outside tonight

Wind outside tonight
in the dark brutal cold
                    	Your voice silent, gone
                    	a memory of happiness
                    	
Runs across solid lakes
white muffled fields
                    	Warm streams green fields
                    	as you rode and ran
                    	sunlight dappling your hair
through brittle forests
barren coastlines

Roars in triumph
besting warmth
carving away hope
                    	You were once here
mocking life

Snow like stone
In the dark brutal cold


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Suicide King

Suicide King
~~~~~~~~~~
Steaming blacktop by the overpass
A stalking ground for johns and whores
Don't stop walking boy you'd be a fool!
They just want to make you famous
Not like Amos, posthumously
So ride and die the fare is cheap
As are the thrills if you like the nasty
I saw a guy I used to play chess with today
He weighted eighty six pounds
I couldn't hold back my tears
He was too weak but for one last game
As I moved his pieces across my last gift 
To this extinguished golden soul
The onyx of pink and black
A favorite of the ancients
Pools of my tears reflect sorrow and loss
Recognition faded from eyes dead and still
I had him in check hours ago, but my last thoughts 
Of this friend of such gentle demeanor
Would be a proud king standing
I'm sure if the roles were reversed he'd do no less for me
I'm satisfied with the memory of the good times
I reserve in honor with one final tear
And my last word to an ascended soul
Stalemate


Details | Prose Poetry | |

committ suicide

the night of baultic suprise
the do or die eyes
of marines
try not to dream of him
he's ours
used to be you
now you know why
americans do