Best Suicide Poems | Poetry
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The Best Suicide Poems
When Wishes were made on a shooting star
The Heavens looked down and smiled
With sprinkles of stardust on a whisper of moonbeams
They created for us a child
Soothed you were by twinkling stars
In a crib that faced a velvet sky
Did Queen Cassiopeia sing you a sweet lullaby
As she heard your cries from ever so high
In the years that followed you blossomed
Joy abounded at the Wondrous You
A rare jewel that we could hardly believe was ours
A beacon lighting a path so True
We named you Vincent - Our shooting Star
We felt with the artist you identified
a gifted creativity - an affinity with stars
Sharing a world of art personified
The ‘Via Lactea’ expanded into names defined
Elliptical galaxies pondered while star gazing
Sirius the Dog Star the brightest of all
Followed by Canopus and Arcturus - Amazing
Vega - Alpha Lyrae - the Soaring Eagle
You dragged us into your nightly game
Willing participants we soared with Him
Our mundane lives now never the same
Tents were pitched on ink black nights
Constellations on high seriously contemplated
Of Draconis, Capricornus, Gemini and Aries
The Heavenly hand that had so skilfully created
You captured the Milky Way in oils and canvas
In a fashion shared with artists of old
Your palette made up of hues and shades
With flaming strokes of colors so bold
And then it all Changed
Why did it all change? You drew within
Shutting us out despite our pleas
Your palette changed to blacks and greys
A boat rocking on emotional seas
We begged and pleaded - you shut the door
Leaving us baffled at what was wrong
Your light grew dimmer by the day
Our sorrow sang its own woeful song
And then on one starry starry night
The final flame - extinguished by you
Leaving utter devastation - bereft in its wake
Your parents’ hearts broken in two
Time heals all wounds so they say
Your farewell note being read and reread
Through tears of sadness, the hurt replaced
With acceptance and forgiveness instead.
And now as we sit years later on our porch
Staring at one star that sparkles so Bright
The words of Don McLean’s echoes in our minds
Of Vincent and his Starry Starry Night
‘For they could not love you
But still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On that Starry Starry night
You took your life
Like sometimes lovers do
But I could have told you Vincent
This world was never meant
For one as beautiful as you’
Though fictitious, this is a story that truly represents teenage Cyber bullying suicides all over the world including Asia today. The innocent victims fear blackmail and repercussions refusing to talk it over with parents or mentors.
The parents are not even aware sometimes of the dark void of despair their child is facing and trying to address by themselves of which they have no experience and sometimes think the only way out is to end it all.
In this cyber age, these cowardly bullies hide behind anonymity, targeting their innocent victims, spreading and sharing lies and venom.
Hat’s off to my friend Kate Pennington of ‘Beyond a Joke’ Anti-Bullying Centre, in Sydney Australia, an amazing lady dedicated to helping the youth.
No real names of victims have been used in this piece of poetry and any resemblance is purely coincidental.
POTW 23rd April 2017
Copyright © Maria Williams | Year Posted 2017
They'll have you believe she was lost to the sea,
But the moon would beg to differ.
She was always lost,
Always looking for which way to go.
Or was that always looking for where she came from?
The moon couldn't really tell coming from going;
To a celestial body both look pretty much the same.
She wanted to be found asserts the moon.
Or was that to be seen?
She had confided at every turn,
I see you,
Do you see me?
I am but a sliver today, how about you?
A crescent, that's exactly how I'm feeling too!
I see you,
Do you see me?
No, not this moonless night;
I don't see myself either.
I see you,
Do you see me?
I see you.
I know you see me too.
You are the full that fills me.
She was not lost to the sea insists the moon.
It was not the sea that swallowed her
But my reflection.
Composed for Gregory R Barden's
Water and Sky
Copyright © Maureen McGreavy | Year Posted 2018
Her paintbrush is a razor,
Her canvas, her wrists,
"I deserve the pain."
She shrugs and insists.
One day the brush will push down,
And it will cut so deep,
That this girl will fall
into an eternal sleep.
She doesn't remember how she started
What brought her interest to this,
How do you discover,
that cutting is your form of bliss?
No one would have guessed that she does it.
No one would have considered this one.
This girl is forever fighting a battle,
that she thinks the demons have won.
Her artwork is all over her,
Her beauty is on her thighs,
and if you look in her old trash,
you'll find her letters of goodbye.
Her masterpiece is quite disturbing,
Her masterpiece is a little gory,
Her artwork is her escape.
Let me tell you her story.
She compares herself to every person,
She is compared to each girl.
She thinks she's hideous,
And there's this boy that is her world.
She was bullied and picked on,
She was teased from head to toe,
Hard to believe that her best friend,
was her one and only foe.
Then later she disliked every little thing,
Her body, face and even her mind,
Soon she saw she was a failure,
and it was just in due time...
That this girl couldn't take it anymore
She'd decided she was done living this,
So one day she went home
and decided to end it.
Everyday for multiple days,
This girl would try to drown,
Hard to believe this girl at school,
never ever wore a frown.
Sometimes she'd just fall asleep crying,
Praying that she'd be enough,
Because she didn't want to leave her family.
She knew about their sweet love.
This girl found hope in small things eventually,
She soon would see this beautiful light,
and find a REAL best friend,
that helped her put up a fight.
Her masterpiece soon was leaving,
Her artwork was almost faded,
and it gave her a sick feeling,
the feeling of being jaded.
She found a boy that actually loved her,
And showed her love exists,
And this boy too had a masterpiece,
placed close to his wrists.
He related to her and she related to him.
She kissed his artwork and said he's not alone,
When she cut herself it hurt him,
Her masterpiece now wasn't just her own.
Her masterpiece effected others,
Her artwork wasn't just for herself,
She now had people,
who saw her cries for help.
And then her family found out,
So then they saw the art too,
to them they were just scars,
To her they were the truth.
She's trying to be okay now,
She thinks she might survive,
Even though they didn't think
to take away the knives.
Copyright © Madison Marie | Year Posted 2013
I'm sitting on the floor
I'm crying so much more
trying to erase this pain
trying to forget your face
sitting here with the blade in my hand
running so slow blood dripping down
in a deep red color
flowing freely the way i want to feel
I'm sitting on the floor
holding my hand out
I'm holding a bottle
a bottle filled with pills
I'm crying so hard
the pain is unbearable
I'm feeling so weak
I'm sitting here on this floor
holding a blade
crying like crazy
trying to take this pain away
I'm trying my best trying to fight
my eyelids feel heavy
my door is so far
the whispered yells to far
falling deep in to sleep
I'm laying on a bed
I'm so confused
where am i?
my throat feels sore
my body screams in pain
I'm looking around
I'm in a small white room
i try to move,
my hands are stuck
i try to get up
i feel restraints
what happened to me?
I'm laying on a bed
trying to get up
my head hurts
a nurse is here
a shot is administered
i drift to sleep
I'm in the psych ward
why am i here?
I'm lying on a bed
laying so still
my wrists hurts to no end
I'm crying out loud
screaming and cussing
my body hurts
i can't remember
all i remember are my bloody wrists
and a bottle of pills
all i remember is the pain i was in.....
Copyright © GRACIE GONZALEZ | Year Posted 2013
I s l i p p e d on a teardrop and landed in her arms. She never knew how much I needed her. I s l i p p e d in a puddle and I died in her soul. She never knew how much I needed her. Between yesterday’s old coffee and today's bright doom I broke in half. My heart slipped away into the hell of her death and my mind created LOST memories. So many moments of despair she held, and so many times of loneliness I lived. Beneath the darkness of the moon I drowned in a river created from her pain. It engulfed me into oblivion and I shall never be the same again. Sisters need each other and I needed her. Life seems over and death seems so FINAL.
teardrops in her arms-
woe brings rivers of d r o w n i n g
DEATH by suicide
I s l i p p e d on a teardrop and landed in her misery. She never knew how much I loved her. I s l i p p e d in a puddle and I died in her heart. She never knew how much I loved her. After the downpour of anguish I fell asleep. Nightmares of our final hug GOODBYE. If only I had held on longer maybe she would have felt more love from me. Maybe enough love to keep her alive. For she never realized how much her pain caused me heartache. She bled in sadness and I bleed in regret. No time to heal because healing is no more. Life seems dark and death seems so BLEAK.
one final goodbye-
not enough pure love from me
two dead souls bleeding
I s l i p p e d on a teardrop and landed in her remorse. She never knew how much I longed for her. I s l i p p e d in a puddle and I died in her essence. She never knew how much I longed for her. Before she was born she was already gone. A lifetime of sorrow and feeling different. It was hard for her to be a lesbian. Too hard. RIDICULED and damaged beyond repair. No more light at the end of her tunnel and the lessening of sunshine during her days. It’s depressing to think about what she felt her final moments of life. Her goodbye letter was awful. Full of pain and too much grief for me to read. I keep it in a journal tucked gently away. One day I will pull it out and read it again. Life seems wrong and death seems so BLACK.
suffered from regret-
too flawed and b r o k e n to heal
~She s l i p p e d on a teardrop and landed in her grave~
I Slipped On A Tear Drop
The Creative Collective Anthology Series
Date Judged: 7/9/2017
Date Written: June 21, 2017
Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2016
The day you died you took me with you,
The way you lied shook me black and blue.
The sorrow you felt, I sure felt it too,
The tomorrow dreams won’t come true.
All the good hello's turned into dying goodbye's,
All the to’s and fro’s burned holes in my eyes.
You thought you were so sly, but I always knew,
You fought so hard to die and knew I needed you.
Depressing mornings and nights of pure hell,
Lessening of warnings and sights when you fell.
Deprivation of your soul saving wonder,
Trepidation of your whole wavering thunder.
Heavy-hearted moments with stitches on your wrists,
Broken-hearted atonement with twitches on your fists.
Unheard thoughts engraved in your soul,
The third day I tried to save you...you lost control.
Forgiveness with a burden held on my left shoulder,
Impulsiveness when you're hurting, (I couldn't hold her).
Bleeding and burning and
living and dying....
Needing and turning and
giving and crying....
It's been five long years since I’ve rested and slept,
I try to smile but in my dreams even the angels wept.
Date Written: May 1, 2016
Your Best Rhyming Poem
Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2016
I Death Wood
My skeleton, the trembling tree,
hit by the axes of ambulances
due to the decay of disease.
My muscles languish as wilted leaves.
My organs are rotting red apples.
My soul is the searing wind, while
my thoughts tick like termites.
The ivy of MS illness wraps with
waste around my twisted trunk.
Suddenly, spiders of suicide
descend onto my branches.
They crawl across my broken bark,
crackling my rustic eyesight.
The sun, a golden unicorn, gone
into the forest of healthy laughter.
My wilted wood wanes in a cloud coma
with no moon, stars or watercolor sky.
Where are my wildflowers?
Where is my green gleam?
I wait and wish for black lighting.
II Birth Wood
My family, the fog where most
float in the underworld as veiled
ghosts along the grassy grounds.
My thirsty roots reach for them
like wild hands hungry in ebony soil.
Sometimes their memory perfumes
and pollinates my heart with prayers.
My friends are a flock of birds that
become singing bracelets upon my bark.
Their feathers grace me like silk hope.
Their beaks devour the suicide spiders
on my weak wood, and their cheerful
songs encourage me to bloom once again.
Full moon flashes as a white wizard,
wearing a cloak of competitive clouds,
while moody night smolders as his black hat.
Spirals of opal light make my bark bright.
Spirit moonbeams weave within my wood,
healing hollow shadows, and allowing me to
taste the monthly midnight milk of magic.
III Rain Wood
Spring steams with saturating rainfall,
sealing my splinters, washing away webs,
and the dirt of daily depression.
My sap slides like a slow moving sea.
My tree bends and bows in all
directions, sprouting with joy.
Jade fire erupts along my branches.
Raindrops beat like crystal hearts
upon my boughs and my blossoms.
These clear spheres of nature inspire
rebirth and germination of all life.
My apples sing as flutes, my leaves
clap hands, and my trunk plays harp.
My lover, the lone eagle, appears and flaps
his feathered wings upon my wooden nest.
Our love is best lived in traveling weather.
My limbs taste the last drops of dissipating dew
as the crocheting clouds release final rivers.
Deer court in the fermenting forest,
while golden unicorn grazes upon me.
February 7th 2008
Sponsor: A Poet Destroyer
Contest: 100 in a ROW contest--3
Copyright © Chantelle Anne Cooke | Year Posted 2015
The easel beholds a half finishing painting
The paints beside have all hardened
Pain reflected in the partial emptiness
Staring back at that gathered crowd
The sun melts on the canvas page
Creation explained in elapsed rage
Notions and pleas from dried paintbrushes
Strewn across the almost barren floor
One to the other in whispered voice
I wonder if this would have been his choice?
Empty wine bottles twirling in light
Beside the dead body, a painting just right
There lies Art
His final painting
His last prose
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017
She stands at the edge of the precipice,
looking down towards her future.
The last tears that she will ever cry,
falling from her eyes,
then falling into oblivion.
She watches them drop
as they disappear forever.
Yet, she laughs in the face of death.
Would it really matter if she took the leap?
She has been forgotten by tomorrow.
The wind blowing at her back,
pushes her to the edge.
Almost agreeing with her final decision,
and encouraging her to jump.
A thousand thoughts and memories
racing through her mind.
Her first day of school.
Her tenth birthday party.
The lonely, awkward days of her teenage years.
The day she discovered poetry.
The moment she first saw him.
The day she thought that she was worth something.
The day when all of that became a lie.
that never made the pages of a history book.
She has been forgotten by tomorrow.
She exists to no one but herself.
In the blink of an eye, she decides her fate.
Her feet leave the ground,
and yet, she did not fall.
Out of nowhere he appeared,
and carefully grabbed her hand.
Pulling her back to reality,
saving her from the brink of disaster.
He held her, as her tears stained his jacket.
Old tears of sadness,
mixed with new tears of happiness.
She was remembered by yesterday.
Before she was forgotten by tomorrow.
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014
They hate you because your you
They make up lies and call it true
They're fake behind your back
Hoping someday that you'll crack.
They hate you because your real.
no matter what they say you always heal
They're surprised to see you rise,
That you're not affected by all these lies
They hate you because you smile at them
It shows them that your a real gem
You are always true and do your best :)
Sometimes these haters just cant test
They hate you for no reason
Despite it all, you smile
whatever the reason
At the end of the day
All i'm gonna say
All i plan to be
-Sanderline Fleury :)
Copyright © Sanderline Fleury | Year Posted 2013
Call it what you want!
I call it, his favorite season hunt...
Two hoofs imprinted near the riverfront.
Echoes calling my soul with a loud, ferocious grunt.
I smell it in the air, lost upon the white golden stair.
A deep frost dwelling all over his lair.
Tangled by the frozen grip of my hair.
A decision, I declare to give what he won't spare.
This man has no red suit..
Lurking in the white to recruit.
A midnight suicide clouding me with pollute.
I pause my tongue on mute, lost in a white castle chute.
Headed straight into a shivering blazing star path.
The land of snow covered like a bubble bath.
Breaking icicles like crystal glass, suck3d by the milky-way mass.
Multiplying bruises like a cascade, enjoying the aftermath.
Finding a way to slit the pain in my domain.
I grab a coat and lace my name to Mary-Jane.
Inserting the finest line to ease the drain in my brain.
I drink the icy scotch, and drop a silver nickel into the devils cocaine.
Fallen in to his bait, its too late, I got 7 lines on my dinner plate.
I'm covered up in snow, enjoying the amazing way to suffocate.
Eight beats to every minute is my new heart rate.
I'm reaching for the white golden gate, where the white devil waits.
Drowning like liquor in a frappe mixing the winter's high tide.
Death to my soul is where I hide under this white blanket neutral side.
Too heavy to uplift this storm lost in the devil's cold custard suicide guide.
Waking up in a coma, in a world where white collides with the rage of suicide.
(( Trapped in a snowy blizzard))
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015
Red roses true
Skies so blue
Lovers doing what lovers do
Chocolates and confessions
of eternal love
Building up hopes and dreams
I, behind the counter
At the ripe old age of 69
Watch all the youth
Filled with hope and desire
Love is like clouds in the carefree sky
They all stare and thrust
Hoping to latch onto a dream
Reality is not so kind
Illusions die on the ides
Kisses left unfulfilled
Roses with more thorns than hope
Wine so sour, blood is in flavor
Ah, but for now they are all happy
Holding hands and bouquets
Pink roses and red carnations
The road they know not to damnation
Who am I? To spoil a dream
Who am I? To laugh when they scream
You see love was a knife
That murdered me long, long ago
I may breathe, but the death possessed me
The life all but left me
So tonight as lovers kiss and fondle
I wish them well, from far over yonder
I kicked out the chair
The rope taunt and tight
As my last breath
Whispered to my long lost love
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
In the bleak midwinter,
frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
water like a stone;
snow had fallen, snow on snow,
snow on snow,
in the bleak midwinter,
- Christina Rossetti
My mirror-face is pinched pallid as, colourlessly, I go over and over his last journey, and shudder like a train on a track. His last tracks...tracks in the snow...train tracks. Tear-tracks damp-bead my ashen cheeks, but tears, though summer-hot, don't thaw the bone-chill of alone.
his snowflake letter
cold on an empty car seat -
Just sorry and people don't always understand, I only hope you can and goodbye.
I took to my bed as the ripped days bled, pulled the duvet up over my head, shaken by a blizzard of dread. Fingers in ears, didn't want to hear about last movements, CCTV footage, forensics. My words fell snow-silent, and, as people have pointed out to me since, now I only speak through poetry's voice, its mediumistic mouth.
I'm reading a book Coping With Suicide, well, I'm trying to read. But each page is a snowdrift muffling my mind, each word is a curled black whorl of hard-iron earth. I've stopped counting the days and nights, they've merged into a blizzard blur of winter-white. And the hoarded condolence cards all cry winter in snowflake whites and star silvers: In Deepest Sympathy ivory-traced, With Sympathy silver-etched.
Who would have thought grief had so many shades of winter? That death had a colour? Whilst others died with a heart attack's red squeeze or cancer's black rampage, he died with suicide's expanding white, its barren blank.
Poking food around my plate, staring sickly-numb, dumb, at the mounded happy orange of carrots, the yellow smiles of corncobs. Ashen faces in sifting ashy light, voices ermine-soft in empathy.
friends coax-feeding me
at a table set for one -
his chair is empty
Sleeping with his photograph, well, feigning sleep, through each silent night. Nothing holy in loss and lonely, just a hole blown through the heart.
Remembering: winter woodland walks hand in hand, plans we made, foundations laid. Frost-framed photos, snapshot days: a memory mural. Each shared moment freezing to a cold grief-pearl. Blanched branches window-tapping, and I'm thinking it's him.
vista of Christmases past -
Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2015
She went to sleep
closing her eyes
beginning to dream
of broken butterflies
tearing her lovely monarch wings
on faithless love that angels sings...
She finds shiny metal in kitchen sink
in an evening absent light
she finds peace in cuts of pink
watching crimson blood flow feels so right..
Starlight shines upon her tears
I whisper darling, you cannot bleed
all of your suicidal fears
at night when you begin to cry
I'll sing you a lover's lullaby..
My love do not wish that you were dead
dreaming of an absent pulse
laying on silken sheets bleeding red
I will offer love so do not bleed
give me your knife I am all you need...
~ ~ ~ ~
Copyright © Ken Carroll | Year Posted 2014
SONNET – END OF LIFE
Fore'er without the pain, always apart,
As now with absent cast of yearning eyes.
Time's lonely quest to heal a wounded heart,
With destined end, to ash returns my rise.
My life ordained to doom in outcast fate,
The zeal of joy turned into woeful lies,
Confused a life in prime to dust abates
Defeats compassion past the silent cries.
From dreams of love to useless life so bare,
Bereft attempts turned into grave desire.
No longer will remains, alone despair,
In end of all that was, of purging fire.
A lonely heart deceased in frozen cold,
No breath remains of ornament once gold.
Copyright © Teppo Gren | Year Posted 2015
In the morning storm
he hums like a bird,
but words do not form -
for he can't be heard.
As he holds back cries
he feels paralysed.
Anguish from the pain.
Wounds begin to stain
hurt he can't condone.
Empty from despair -
Nothing can prepare
broken hearts that mourn.
Lost and dejected,
Melancholic mind -
fragile like flowers.
Dismal days a grind,
he counts the hours.
Insecure with life,
for it makes no sense.
Inflicted with strife,
sorrow makes him tense.
He sits on the ledge.
Breathes one last deep sigh.
Looks down from the edge -
waves the world goodbye.
11 October 2017
Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017
Maid of the Myst
I lie in repose
Under the falls
In a tranquil pool
Of turquoise blue
He left me for another
This I could not suffer
My pain already drowning me
I fell from the falls
Spectacular was the news
Young girl with the blues
Dives to her cherished death
My lover left me for I was on meth
I was confused and skin so bruised
Misused and tears seeped from my veins
No one at all could know this enduring pain
So now under the falls I enjoy the rain
My soul lies deep
Under waters so very steep
I wait, and I wait
To be alive again
From the skies
Not another… but I see a phone that dives
Floating downwards upon my weary breast
A chance you see, finally I was blessed
I call from the depths below
Like a spirit I begin to glow
Daddy daddy is that you?
From below I call to say a proper adieu
Found inside her pocket
I miss you daddy
I love you so much
Forgive my wild youth
Remember me as I was in your arms
Long ago with my pony tails
Your little cuddly pumpkin
Love you daddy
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Near the cliff's edge he stood
poised and composed. Wind swept dust
whirling ozone mingling thyme,
tickling his half-clogged nose.
gliding, soaring, diving,
harbingers of electric storms.
A mistral wind blew cold and cruel
black clouds formed low, forbidding.
Lazy lizards scuttled for refuge
Sparrows hid in lowly carobs
Or flew into the stately pines.
The wind spoke suddenly.
Gusts whispering dread.
An urge, a whisper, an invitation
echoing sirens of old:
"Be free, fly, liberate yourself."
Below, the sea in turmoil,
no fishing boats in sight.
No one but he dared face the storm,
the storm he feared
was inside his tattered soul,
a sea of torment.
The birds and creatures of the wild
found a haven, but he had none,
no solutions to the inner storm,
except to dive and join the sirens,
in the perilous seas below.
written 12 September 2007
Many people died here. It is a real picture of Dingli Cliffs in Malta.
I never dare to go near the edge.
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2015
God knows at times it don’t all come up Roses
And most days, these days life don’t work at all
Each road I choose keeps leading me to nowhere
But You’ve been there, each time I trip and fall
I’ve tread your Trail of Tears
I hear You Crying
And Jesus knows, I’m failing but I try…
It used to feel so easy, with You watching
But maybe You’ve been busy, times are tough
A thousand Souls a year, I hear are passing
A thousand Souls, who’ve just had had enough
They tread Your Trail of Tears
They heard You crying
And Jesus seen them failing, but they tried…
It’s faith in You, that keeps my heart still beating
And all I’ve come to love along the way
I’ve loved more than I’ve ever dreamed of loving
But sometimes You just feel so far away
I’ve tread Your Trail of Tears
I hear You crying
And Jesus knows, I’m failing, but I try…
Please rest the saddened lonely ones who’ve fallen
Their Spirits, undeserving of the blame
It may be that they heard Your sweet voice calling
Though the burden it was never theirs to claim
You’ve seen their Trail of Tears
You heard them crying
And Jesus knows, they failed Lord, but they tried…
And if tomorrow finds me lost and lonely
Screaming at this world to understand
It’s man that needs to help his ailing brother
It’s man that needs to hold his brothers hand
To tread your Trail of Tears
To hear you crying
And even though we’re failing, we’ll have tried…
Copyright © peter walsh | Year Posted 2016
This won't be a pretty picture, but I'm going to use this paper to put my art on
I'm not heartless, let me show you where my heart's gone
Should I be ashamed? Should I hide my scars?
Some were gave to me, others inflicted from self-harm
The weight of the world on my shoulders, is easy to carry compared to the pain in my heart
I fell so many times and had no one helping me up
How could I be alone when I have depression telling me I suck
I wanted to get close to you Chantal, but depression was right there
It made me push away my dream girl and continued to be my nightmare
Age 13 I lost my virginity to a girl called Meg
I grew up quicker than I should have
I wonder if she ever thinks of me? Do I pop into her head?
It wasn't her first time, so I doubt it was as special for her
If she reads this, I hope I can make her feel special with words
There I go, Putting out stuff about me the world doesn't need to know
I'm probably wrong for putting my heart on display when I write this
I just hope people who give this a read will grow
Even if they judge me, I don't think I can hide this
I battle suicidal thoughts daily, so a lot of people consider me weak
I can rhyme my pain perfectly, but I'm unable to deliver a speech
When my ex cheated, was the guy richer than me?
Was he bigger than me?
I don't need to know, tell the bartender it's a hard liquor for me
All of my mistakes came with a lesson attached
I've never touched drugs, even though my brother and sister are injecting smack
Who am I to judge, when I used to pick up blades and made myself start bleeding
Depression makes me tired, anxiety prevents me from sleeping
I was bullied at school and made to feel worthless
I can't be a good poet, because I don't know how to word it
Got told I shouldn't love hip hop cause I'm a white dude
You don't have the right to listen to Rakim, Nas, Big Pun and Ice Cube
I was confused as to why they cared so much about what's playing in my earphones
Dealing with my fears alone
Bipolar so a lot of people label me weird
Sometimes I wish I wasn't able to hear
I find it hard to open up to new people who come close
I hide my feelings to the best of my ability from people I know
I'm only human, I hope you can learn from my mistakes
This is my real life pain, but to you its just words on a page
Copyright © Alex Duffy | Year Posted 2017
He was still breathing,
but they did not hear his sighs.
His heart was shivering,
but they did not see it trembling.
His body was on fire,
but they did not feel the heat.
His tongue spoke,
but they did not know his words.
Her perfume still lingered,
but her image was now a distant silhouette -
a figment of dark pigment, haunting his mind.
Maybe infertile seeds,
were the reason for her vulnerability.
Maybe his adolescence,
struggled to understand her delinquency.
There was no explanation for the voices,
as demons had disturbed her existence.
Nobody understood.. Not even he.
Who was confused to why she let them in.
He always remembered vividly,
he could not stop her blood from flowing,
nor did his kiss of life save the day.
Songs from that era,
haunted him for decades.
Too bitter to shed public tears,
he constantly cried in his sleep.
Till the day he forgot to cry,
motionless, he felt nothing.
If only he had listened to his conscience:
Because right from the start,
she was born to break his heart.
5 March 2018
Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2018
On The Suicide Of Dorothy Hale
Known for her self portraits and her politics
Her famous unibrow and her elaborate dress
And for twice marrying Mexico's most renown muralist
Her paintings which bore her pain were well received
And to this day are still growing in success
However my intrigue lies in her greatest fail
Not still life nor self portrait rather
Her commissioned portrait of late actress Dorothy Hale
Asked for by Hale's friend publisher of Vanity Fair
Intended as a gift for the grieving mother
No doubt a caring gesture to ease untold despair
But Frida Kahlo in her visceral style
Produced The Suicide Of Dorothy Hale
A piece which did more to trumpet her own guile
More accurate and macabre a portrayal than anyone would expect
The actress in her leap from her high-rise suite
A ghostly image draped in white falling to her death
And at the bottom her lifeless body replete with bloody mess
Corsage of yellow roses pinned to her favourite black dress
For me this painting speaks more of Frida Kahlo's honesty
Than any self depiction
Her character, personality, and her absolute conviction.
At the bottom of the painting in blood red lettering reads
"In New York City on the 21st of October 1938, at 6:00 in the morning,
Dorothy Hale committed suicide by throwing herself from a very high window
in the Hampshire House. In her memory [...] this retablo was executed
By Frida Kahlo."
Copyright © Maureen McGreavy | Year Posted 2017
I can’t breathe.
It isn’t because I’m upset,
Because I’m not.
I rarely am anymore.
No, that’s wrong.
But it’s not painful
Like it used to be
Back when I had real emotions;
Back when I knew what it meant
To be human
And not an empty husk
With nothing going on inside.
I’m a husk,
But it hurts so much
To be empty.
Always screaming in my head,
Slamming their fists
Against my battered throat,
Tripping over my bloody tongue,
Whispering past my chewed lips
Because all their power
Was lost fighting me.
I’m my own villain,
My own executioner.
I wrap ropes around my neck
And take a leap of faith
Off the nearest building.
My community service?
Wipe my remains off
Of your three-hundred-dollar boots
And forget about the girl
Who used to sit across from you in class
With the saddest smile;
Twisting her depression
Into something almost edible.
Forget about the girl
Who stood for
Everything that burns
Forget about the girl
Who used to be okay.
Forget about the girl
Who’s nothing more
Than a streak across the pavement
And a brief vigil in the streets,
An excuse for tears
When she didn’t deserve them
In the first place.
Copyright © Carissa Marie | Year Posted 2017
When you smiled
I thought "How beautiful you are."
When you cried
I witnessed the depth of you
When you were angry
I recognized that you had been hurt
When you laughed
I could feel you healing
When you played
I remembered how to be a child
When you danced
I felt my heart beating
When you left
I wished I had known you better..
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2017