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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 |


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.

Copyright © Chris Fortin | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Suicidal Notes

Do you sometimes wonder about your self identity
seen through your lens for suicidal risk as opportunity?

It interests me that this lens
evolves as we age.

In later adolescence,
we often look in the face of transition
from good nutritional outcomes on a small stage
about to enter more competitively sharkish waters
within a significantly larger landscape.

Or so I focused my lens in my younger lack-time of wonder.
Not sure why or how these same transitions did not also apply
to nearly all those nonsuicidal 18-24 year olds,
enjoying a more Positive Psychology.

But now, in later adulthood,
I more often look in the face of a potential suicide
as one with at best mediocre outcomes
on a too-small stage,
often familial, or lack thereof,
about to enter no stage at all,
thinking maybe why postpone this mortal inevitability
of decay and disappearance.

From younger suicides,
"What would be the point of continuing
this WinLose Game,
when we all feel RealTime drill,
you never clearly win
until you stop losing,
and you never stop losing,
until you stop playing.
Clearly I am about to lose
what I don't feel all that great about
ever having won
at others' expense."

From older suicides,
"What was the point
of taking so long
to end this rigged Lose to Lose
death-embracing game
called life?"

It feels like these despair and suffering questions
co-arise within exponentially more of us,
asking echoing silos
as our encultured Earth moves
into a new revolutionary millennium.

Given the now nearly inevitable demise
of our polyculturally and climatically climaxing
exterior and interior lenses
of healthy hope v. toxic pathological 
and monocultural decline
of ecological
and economic
and political balance,
how do we know
we are more than an overpopulating parasitic blight
riding Earth's mortuary-in-waiting
where Elders remind was once
a healthy regenerative place
to continue living?

Yet it is so important to notice
not only all despairing souls
jumping off roofs
but also healthfully repairing spirits
building polyculturally positive-deviant landscapes
of organic and synergetic opportunity,
cooperative networks of resonant resolve
sounding Time's dipolar appositional
issues of despair as opportunities to repair,
still seeking reasonable,
yet deviant,
hope for shared regenerational vocations,
with WinWin reiterating integrity
between Earth's adaption and humane adoption,
within  history's proposal and culture's co-evolving disposal.

No ego is autonomously responsible
for feelings or thoughts,
ideation or even beliefs.
So it is no one's right to judge feelings,
our own feelings,
the feelings-beliefs-ideas of others
as unacceptable or somehow cosmically dysfunctional,
condemning or worthy of global applause,
taking all we have been given
far too personally,
too unrealistically removed from comparative
and nuancing context
to discern how we might choose to carry on.

It is our responsibility and opportunity,
personally, and as a species,
to notice trends of suffering and despair,
compared to trends of multisystemic health diversity,
polycultural density of nutritional choices,
ranges of harmonic freedom and wealthy cultural balance,
as they appear to reflect
and not reflect
our shared experience to date.

Not to judge and condemn failures and despair,
but to praise our most regenerative successes
and love for equitably accessible hope
to include all Earth's cooperative economy
among our emerging synergetic Tribe 
of curious interests.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Written Suicide

I am a writer. The odds are in your favor that I bet you may be a writer as well. It isn't that extremely bold of claim. I type. I text. I make words. Words make me. Make up my inner most amazing molded version of myself.  
I write with conviction. Words are the convict. Perpetrated as is, words are like magic. Illusive words are. Words are illusions. Illusions may be a little on the wordy side. I stand side by words. Words stand as is, by me. That is super simple for possessive intent by a random you. I stand by my self claim of written evidence of many wordy phrases.  
I would, personally, in a social setting, find it nearly impossible to self compose a suicide… 
Why do I need to limit easy answers? 
That is just my style. Likewise I withhold little to every(none-thing). 
If I made it cut and dry then why would I waste our time in its composure.  
I'm busy so a summary will conclude. 
I write as personal therapeutic release.  
In the act of writing a suicide letter. I would write myself right out of that idea.  
I would just pull the trigger and leave a photo bomb of some (none-thing)  
Suicide all letters are not 26 and z.  
They are forever 27 and lmnop.  
Picture me writing.  
In the act of writing a suicide letter

Copyright © Ir0nic ZiNk | Year Posted 2016

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.


Copyright © Will Ayling | Year Posted 2014

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

Copyright © Shaun Herron | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


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


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


[ 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 ]

Copyright © Chris Fortin | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


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

Copyright © Chris Fortin | Year Posted 2015

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?

Copyright © Miya Fontaine | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |


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.

Copyright © Jeffrey Feghaly | Year Posted 2014

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

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

Copyright © Chris Fortin | Year Posted 2015

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?


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


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


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

Copyright © Chris Fortin | Year Posted 2015

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.

Copyright © Chris Fortin | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |



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

I am not I-that-knew-you

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

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

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

A confused mind realizes
the memories of you
are not mine
belonging instead to

I do not belong
in this dusty mansion.

Copyright © Chris Fortin | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


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


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 


Copyright © Chris Fortin | Year Posted 2015

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
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


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

and myself from being left behind

Copyright © Chris Fortin | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


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 .

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
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.

Copyright © Chris Fortin | Year Posted 2015

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.

Copyright © Chris Fortin | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


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?"
"What have you 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.

Copyright © Kristopher Curran | Year Posted 2013

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

Copyright © Chris Fortin | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |



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 


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


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.

Copyright © Chris Fortin | Year Posted 2015

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.

Copyright © Daniel Dixon | Year Posted 2013

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.

Copyright © James Kelley | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Primal Choice

Paranoia feeds on dark roots.
In full bloom, everything and everyone that happens against me
happens for a sinister conspiratorial reason.
This is my felt conjecture,
to which I am compelled to respond
by struggling against trust
in Other's monopolistic monocultural Wins,
so I might survive to nakedly win
yet another scrappy day of paranoia.

Pronoia feeds on everything and everyone
not out to get me
but more in to let me
happen for a blessed season
with which I am invested to resonate,
including my fair share of struggling with,
but not against,
my WinLose enculturation
so we might thrive to mutually WinWin
yet another multiculturing
Beloved Community Way.

This is our primal ecopolitical choice,
Both-And over Either-Or,
made each moment in time's evolving articulation
deep learning incarnation 
of days and nights
within this ecopolitical identity,
risk with opportunity,

But, even should this become postmillennial political science,
let us not delude ourselves into a hypnotic state of academic neutrality,
ambivalently pretending either choice is equally healthy,
when outcomes are so clearly etched in exegetical stone of climatic history.

Love's mutual promise clearly points toward evolutions of multiculturally embracing healthy wealth,
while fundamentalist paranoid terror favors ecopolitical suicide,
afraid of our anthro-suprema-cast dark shadows.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

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.

Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2010

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

Copyright © Daniel Dixon | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Dear Depression

Dear depression,
You laid with me into the late hours of the night
Filled my mind with toxic thoughts, right until the sunlight
You sharply caressed both wrists, leaving your mark 
Felt as though all that was left was the dark
You manipulated my mind to think everyone will leave 
That all I'd be left with was you, was that what you wanted to achieve?
You were there when my enemies stripped me from my innocence
Left me with your presence and was trapped ever since
You got jealous of my friends and those close to me 
Saying "How could they love you? You know how absurd that would be?"
At the hands of a ghost you threw words at me shaped like rocks
Suffocating me in as if I had installed locks. 
You made me swallow pills so that sleep could swallow me 
In hopes that my bed would swallow my sadness as if that were the key

Dear depression,
Our first few days were really quite okay 
You'd hold me captive in my room right until the very next day
Others had told me that it was just a phase 
That everything would be okay, as it usually was anyway
But you become malicious. Wicked. Venomous 
Like a parasite feasting off my happiness
You built prison bars out of the very walls of my room
Concealed the light with thoughts of an unspeakable doom
You made a home beneath my skin, constructed my lungs and invaded my mind
Allowed yourself in filled me with misery, torment and all pain combined 

Dear depression,
I beg you. Please please give me a break, haven't you defeated me enough already?
You've weakened my strength and tossed me in a state of being terribly unsteady
You forced me to exist but prevented me to live
Yet a view outside my window was all that you could give

Dear depression,
I'm getting really sick of having you around
Being trapped between four walls and most days; even bed bound
Today is the day where it will be me who defeats you
Mark my words, today will be the day of that mighty breath through
Your attempts to rid me from this world, to have me say my final goodbyes
"Oh but you're better off dead" Come on depression, you don't really think I'd believe those lies?

Dear depression, 
Your services are no longer required 
You've stuck around long enough, aren't you getting tired?
Time to move on and let me be
I've got so much in store, you just wait and see
Depression, you have finally been dismissed
But don't hold your breath, you won't be missed.

Copyright © Chelsea Gonthier | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |


TESTING THE EDGE unsheathed razorsharp doubledged crimsonbled dark holes feed blue moles underneath dirt they skirt claws braced throats cursed testing the edge in mythical maddening moments Unicorns stab their Mermaids laying their own sea beds of shameful ancient slaughter testing the edge bloodbeating brainscreaming red smoldering screens blindfolded shielded against past discretions obscene unseen mock reproductions artificial redraged dreams double edged crimsonbled testing the edge while stupidly they stare and do not dare interfere protecting clean blueveined wrists not stained red by unsheathed razorsharp brazened blades testing the edge © Kim van Breda—1 October 2015

Copyright © Kim van Breda | Year Posted 2015

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

Copyright © sadashivan nair | Year Posted 2015

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.

Copyright © Elektra Real | Year Posted 2013

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

Copyright © Tina Menser | Year Posted 2012