Best Hotline Poems
Suicide
Just before death came a spinning swirl.
Lifeless body on the table lain.
Lost in a world where hatreds whirl.
Just before death came a spinning swirl.
What a pity; she is a beautiful girl.
Tears falling down like torrential rain.
Just before death came a spinning swirl.
Lifeless body on the table lain.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
January 7, 2010
Poetic Form: Triolet
Suicide is deadly. Do not choose death. Choose LIFE. Call the National Suicide Prevention
Hotline @ 1-800-273-8255.
Last night I dreamed Rhonda and I were so desperate for income that we either started or were hired by a grandma sex hotline.
I don't remember a lot of the dream but I remember taking one call, and I provided a narrative something like, "Well hello Billie! Yes this is your grandma. Have you been being a good boy? Would you like to know what grandma's wearing tonight?"
I woke thinking holy crap where'd that come from. I bet there are lots of grandma fetish dudes out there though, that's probably a good idea for a sexline business. Oh wait, of course it is, there are probably hundreds of them already.
I told Rhonda the dream and she said maybe it could be done without the sex, just a hotline for anyone who misses or wished they had a grandma.
Yeah, someone might like that phone call if it was free, but to pay through the nose by the minute, they gotta have a brain-addling woody.
Just Maybe
You ask why I didn’t tell anyone
What he did to me….
Well maybe, just maybe
I didn’t want to relive the pain and misery….
You ask why I didn’t tell anyone
How he held me down….
Well maybe, just maybe
I didn’t want to remember the feeling of the cold hard ground…..
You ask why I didn’t tell anyone
How he put his hands on my breast…
Well maybe, just maybe
I didn’t want to remember that feeling of helplessness….
You ask why I didn’t tell anyone
How he violated my soul….
Well maybe, just maybe
I didn’t want to remember how he forcefully took control….
You ask why I didn’t tell anyone
How he kicked me aside….
Well maybe, just maybe
I felt like I wanted to run away and hide…..
You ask why I didn’t tell anyone
Why my heart felt black and cold…
Well maybe, just maybe
I was afraid of what would happen if I ever told
You ask why I didn’t tell anyone
So others won’t feel the same….
Well maybe, just maybe
I didn’t want to relive the horror and feel that unbearable shame…
You asked why I didn’t tell anyone
And why I didn’t say a word…..
Well maybe, just maybe
I did, but nobody heard…..
You ask why I didn’t tell anyone
That I need help to get through the horrible pain….
Well maybe, just maybe
The scars were too deep and still remain…..
You ask why I didn’t tell anyone
You ask why I didn’t tell anyone
Well maybe, just maybe
Well maybe, just maybe
Well maybe, just maybe
I will………..
Please find the strength to tell.
You are not alone.
National Sexual Assault Hotline
1.800.656.HOPE (4673)
My poor vocabulary babies
are gon missing
Tell me kind sir, have you seen them?
Us etymological mothers to
lingual children of lost former meaning,
we are milk carton crying
Many hotline tips
that the academia search party
have been receiving,
unfortunately, has borne no adjective fruit
of root cause discovery
And my poor alphabet unprotected babies
are still missing
Some concerned voices
anonymously said, they saw a couple of
little colloquial diaper tykes
being censored kidnaped late last night
And when dem’ dim synonym scoundrels were spotlighted ,
they fascistically warned them:
Steer clear of this word dirty business, y’hear
Then they rattled their
mouth-muzzling, zip-lip sidearms, menacingly —
They said my innocent children
were gonna grow-up
and cause much sheer mental fear
My infant’s harmless homonym eyes
were New Tact censured hijacked,
Shanghaied as a matter of consonant fact
Somebody please bring those amber pure children
of innocent nomenclature origin back
I, Octavia
do motherly beg,
asking with august favor most acacia
For the cross-cultural media
to free-speech help me
find my lost idiom babies, please!
So that I, and other etymologist mothers
can stop feeling this unabridged pain ...
such emotional scarlet ink heart stain
A bridge of crimson tears over troubled,
choppy, wordy waters —
overflowing with maternal fears
This milk carton crying
for my precious vowels, verbiage dressed babies,
who are now missing ...
Has so bereaved my quill-pricked soul
with perpetual sorrow
Deep Orwellian sadness for these snatched,
suckled lost former meanings
has adverbial sent me
empty intellectual bassinet sighing
And barren cradled
bosom ananym thoughts a-dying
Suicide Hotline
Ring
Ring
Ring
Click
Yes?
Just breathe.
In
Out
In
Out
Talk when you
Are ready
Put down the pills
Please
Throw away
The blade
Cut the rope
Into tiny pieces
If it makes you not afraid
Silence
Hello?
Beep
Beep
Beep
Call Ended.
I am not a dog lover, although dogs are cute,
I'd rather have none of these
around the house...the last one I had
was a dark-blonde dachshund:
he refused to obey a single rule,
he wanted to eat crackers and cheese!
Dogs lovers, I apologize for having made such a comment...
for having said an awful thing about my disobedient dog;
I still love dogs, but I've no patience to train them:
while they run around and bark at a burning log!
I agree they should abide by those strict rules, but
a soft guy like me simply is unable to enforce them!
Dogs are like gorgeous children that some adore more than a gem,
and if they rip apart your expensive kids' stuffed toys,
don't punish them with harsh words and alienate them;
readers, don't flood my inbox with outrageous comments:
you have your likes and dislikes; even perfect characters have a rip!
I hope other dachshunds haven't heard what I said about Ranger,
they will surely show up at my door and start a vicious doggy war!
Ah! Here they come! I must call the Animal Attack Hotline...help!!!
Staring out the window
looking at the falling rain
Thinking of all my inner pain
Staring out the window
Thinking my life has been in vain
Staring out the window
looking at the falling rain
surmizing my mental health ails
Staring out the window
looking at the falling rain
Thinking of all my fails
Staring out the window
looking at the falling rain
Thinking I am ready for the end
Staring out the window at the falling rain
Knowing there is no mend
Staring out the window
looking at the falling rain
Should I choose the "hang"
Staring out the window
looking at the falling rain
Pulling the trigger and
My life goes out with a bang
I can no longer see
The falling rain
Always call the Suicide hotline they are always there to help.
Written by mj June 10 2018.
I am drowning in silence
no one wanting to hear what I have to say
No one asking to know how I spent my day
no laughter finds me
I find no joy to share,
my love is here but he doesn't choose to care
He would want things to be different,
but he doesn't know how
To ease the pain and not let my head in sorrow bow
a life almost totally gone by and people still make me cry
Do they mean to be cruel
I used to deny
But now, I know they do and I wish I could die
I once called "Suicide Hotline" to find a friend
they wait by the phone so your life won't end
I have things to be thankful for, oh, this I don't deny
But the hunger for laughter
makes my soul deeply sigh
I'm drowning in silence
This sad tale has been in movie plots for ages
Sadder for me because I'm locked between these pages
feeling sorry for myself
Who has a better right
wishing to cross from darkness to light
This may be the conclusion but it's not the end
I'm drowning in silence with a love not a friend
You were supposed to love me,
Unconditionally.
Called the hotline,
I'll be fine.
Wait for the "someday",
Surely the sun will shine.
I just want a new life.
Way away from yours, mother.
Why do you hate me anyways?
Did you forget who created me?
I didn't mean to be this way,
The way I am today,
You forced me to be.
I tried your visions on me,
You know, you saw it too.
I saw, you weren't happy
Or proud ; just made me
Feel like a fool.
Mother,
I wanted to live, you know.
To honour the life you gave me,
But you took it many times too.
I promise, I love the sound
That makes when the word
"Mother" is said ; I just,
I can't see you this way.
I promise I've tried to,
Way more times than I'd ever admit.
More times than I should have.
I'm sorry, mother, forgive me.
I really tried to forgive you,
But I've failed, you failed me.
I mothered me better than you.
IF I HAD KNOWN
If I had known what I know now
Could turn back time, erase somehow
My world would have a different view
Not black and white, some color, hue
If I had known.
If I had known it's not the end
When lover leaves you for a friend.
There's no safe place for you to hide,
And life's a broken theme park ride.
If I had known.
If I had known that given time
You can begin to heal, to climb
Up from the mire of deep despair
And find new life, and love, and care.
If I had known.
If I had known this tree could bloom
One thousand years, but for the doom
That left a noose's subtle stain
And family filled with endless pain.
If I had known.
If I had known this broken soul
Had any chance of being whole.
But 16-year-old hearts are sure:
There was no future and no cure.
If I had known.
Instead I took my final stroll
Alone and crying, death my goal
And dangling lifeless from a tree
Never another day to see.
If I had known.
If I had known out there somewhere
Were people trained in such despair.
There is no shame in fighting on
Though pain returns most every dawn.
If I had known.
Now YOU know. Please call the Suicide Hotline in the U.S. at: 800-273-8255 if you are considering harming yourself.
In depths of solitude, I stand forlorn,
With shadow as my sole and steadfast friend.
By society shunned, from kinship torn,
I ponder on life's edge, its bitter end.
Upon the bridge, where thoughts of ending bloom,
My shadow's form beside me makes its stand.
This grim moment, midst the gathering gloom,
I gasp, “l'm not alone in this bleak land!”
For shadow's silent vigil, ever true,
Has walked with me through life's relentless strain.
In every trial, every triumph too,
He’s been my constant, through both loss and gain.
So, ‘neath moon’s light, and night’s cold embrace,
My shadow stands, my solace and my grace.
-Edward
For within you resides immeasurable worth!
You are not alone in this world.
You are not alone in the struggles of this life.
If you are having a difficult time, feeling overwhelmed and overburdened, there is help out there.
It is OK to share your struggles and talk to someone.
Call 988 for help
Text 988 for support
Visit: 988 Suicide and Crisis Hotline for support
Concerned Christian environmentalists truthfully believe God created the life forms inside the oceans, lakes and seas. He left mankind a legacy, he was suppose to be responsible for these marine life species. It is of utmost importance people listen to dedicated groups such as 350 Degrees.
Other countries and other municipalities. have either banned or restricted plastic shopping bags. But restriction and banning in the United States is accomplished by mainly municipalities. It is my prayer that the City of Everett joins them. I phoned Olympia's legislative hotline 1-800-562-6000. And left them this message banning those plastic bags city by city takes much too long.
Where did most of our plastic garbage end up? In other nations of the world, and they have had enough! They believe we created it and should be held responsible for its clean up. Those bags are non-biodegradable and are potentially harmful. They are rapidly filling up our over crowed landfills.
Haven't we had enough of turning our oceans, lakes and seas into human plastic garbage dumps? Because of human wanton carelessness, soon this planet will become inhabitable for even us. How many marine sea life must die? How many fish, and clams and other food sources of man, live on plastic?
People are becoming concerned about recycling of plastic. It is only possible if the products recycling labels have numbers one or two. Products can only be recycled once! You do not have to believe me, but you need to listen to 350 Degrees.
Our polluted oceans are rapidly becoming warmer leading to increased hurricanes, floods and tornadoes. Natural and man made disasters are occurring with more frequency and intensities. Covering a wide disaster range, and displacing its victims. Those people are facing their problems by faith in Jesus Christ. Neighbors and churches are helping each other!
Love as always!
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
October 31, 2018
Roxy 54/ October Country
I’m calling the Suicide Hotline,
This sad Cowboy poetry is getting me down,
I’m looking for a happy thought,
But one just can’t be found.
I’ve got a case of Cowboy Melancholy,
Depression of the deepest kind,
A malady that causes Cowboy Poets,
To think only in disparaging rhyme.
Perhaps you’ve not heard of it,
It’s a little talked about affliction,
That sneaks up rather slowly,
And attacks a Cowboy’s diction.
It starts with Cowboys talking,
About having to shoot their horse,
Or the death of the very last Longhorn,
And Cowboy life having run it’s course.
They tell about being stomped by a bronc,
About how women will break your heart,
Don’t say there won’t be no more Cowboys,
Please, just leave out that part.
Death, dismemberment, getting gored,
It makes me sorrowful and morose,
I tell you these gloomy Cowboy poems,
Boarder upon the verbose.
Is there nothing to say that’s amusing?
Or perhaps a bit light-hearted?
Is Cowboy life, nothing but strife,
And all about the dearly departed?
Does any one remember,
When Cowboy poetry was fun?
I tell you we got us a Crisis !
Quick ! Someone call COW-1-1 !!!
We need some recitation resuscitation,
If Cowboy poetry we are to save,
Go easy on that couplet verse,
About Cowboys in unmarked graves.
Hook those paddles to our pencils,
And everyone stand clear,
Shock the daylights out of us,
Till we write Cowboy poetry delightful to hear.
I vote we form a support group,
With a name somewhat synonymous,
A two-step Western program of sorts,
And call it Cowboy Poets Anonymous.
I suppose I could surrender to the urge,
Recite just one poem of despondent refrain,
But I took the oath, and from this day on,
From this Cowboy Curse I’ll try to abstain.
" Hi, my name is ________, (fill in the blank!)
and I’m a Cowboy Poet... "
Copyright © 1999 Debra Coppinger Hill
Instead of calling
the suicide hotline,
you make an appointment
to get a haircut:
you know that your sense
of responsibility
won’t allow you
to stand up your stylist.
From my collection "The Eden of Perhaps".
NOT written during, or related to, the pandemic.
Dial phone number
Inquire about future fate
Tarot cards reading
Ascertaining the deceit
Searching answer in the stars
Example for Destiny or Choices Contest
4-18-2016