Long Suicide note Poems
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(Dedication: For Robin Williams, RIP)
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Death stalks here and there:
Just stop, stare and see;
Death lurks everywhere...
Fancy what death sets free?
For most of us death frees:
Grime and dirt plenty;
That's quite a true story...
Not what greets fancy?
Pain brings fond disdain:
Beyond what we see;
Despair creates more pain...
A suicide's mad story?
So many sad mad takes:
Overtures flood pain;
Nothing for goodness sake...
Suicide note now stains?
Sad story news flash:
Death by your own hands;
Soul torn from weary flesh...
Hope you understand?
Please don't judge me dear:
My pains were too much;
But one thought looks quite clear...
Death does not begrudge!
Leon Enriquez
21 August 2017
Singapore
My little suicide note
Despite my poverty
Despite my ugliness
You have always been a princess
You made me feel like a King
When roads got narrow
You stood by me
You understood my pain
You gave me joy on the way
Though it was never meant to last
My heart is corroded
Like a old can
I am giving up even though I am a man
I am tired of crying like a lost child
Depressed as I can be my loneliness eats me
I wish someone would carry me
But turns out I am all alone
I love you but I have to go
I wish you were here to see me
See me before I take my last breath away
If only I had a real reason to stay
But the pain I go through every day doesn't
My cry is loud yet silent
My words are meaningless yet important
And for you I wish the best
I wish I could say goodbye directly
This message is the best way to say it
Please don't moan for me
Because surely where I am heading is better
By Walter Mafokate©
she had that sinking feeling in her lost mind once again
drawn into a void of oblivious anticipation like a spiral
with no end or beginning on free fall with nowhere to go
voices in her head told her to strip naked and disappear
the waves loomed large and rip tides showed her the way
out of constant reminders that she had no purpose at all
the beach was windswept and the sea opened up with
promises of vanished hope spinning into daring control
the suicide note bobbed up and down in the delirious surf
a dolphin had other ideas and closed in from a distance
threw her a pebble from the sea bed and gave her a smile
when she threw the stone into the ocean it leapt a few times
skimmed the surface and found a home deep under cover
as it's image faded she knew it was not her time to vanish
A battered pier glass, the length of a running lightning,
The width of a Caesarean window,
And next to an agelong, framed
Daguerreotype, lies face down across
A musty room.
Shafts and rods of robust sunlight from cracks and holes
Make it less dingy.
The smell of arrogant tobacco haunts the breath
From the shattered floor tiles to the somnolent ceiling.
Shards and smithereens, curved and piercing,
Hook up on the protocols of stalagmites
Through the affront of invading nuns.
I see hope and despair.
I hear the muted sounds of betrayal.
The shards picture life and stress,
And are far-flung.
A small, earthen gallipot is among the shattered.
Spewing gunk on the platform of a volcano,
The confronted floor charges at my wandering feet.
My right heel bleeds gently.
I look out not for a suicide note since it’s a rare
Occurrence in rainy summer,
But I hasten cautiously to the foot of the room,
Like a worshipper strolls piously to the base of
A mountain.
And right there, I garnered the news of the day.
To begin with, it was a just a tale of a trumeau mirror —
A patented piece of introspective glass,
Part of a speculum.
And someone, not entirely debauched,
Once owned it proudly.
How did I get in here in the first place?
A portal,
The size of an elephant’s bowels,
Opened up and let me in through an
Apothecary’s maisonette.
For some fellows, mirrors crack with lightning’s
Image;
For some others, they crack with impunity.
And my shtick,
(Since the age of the hen and her eggs)
Has been to patch broken mirrors together,
Piece before piece.
She thought it was the perfect crime,
But, I knew, I could make her sing;
Somehow, she hadn’t noticed
that she dropped a gold earring.
The suicide note that she faked
included the letter “p”,
but the typewriter that sat upon his desk
had the hammer missing for that key.
The ashtray full of cigarettes
had butts covered with a unique lipstick of pink,
matching the stains also upon
the glasses in her sink.
And, I saw the airplane ticket
she carried inside her purse
was a one-way trip straight out of town
that she had purchased on the first.
When I confronted her with these facts,
she knew the gig was up;
She tried to bribe me to let her go,
but this Detective you can’t corrupt.
If you are 50 and you are naked
Please
Make it a poem and not a photo
A poem we see your inner beauty
A photo we see out of warranty
A poem we see you’re giving spirit
A photo we see your sagging dreams
A wilting flower is majestical poetry
On paper is part of a suicide note
A naked mind will melt hearts young and old
A naked old man will scare away the scare crows
No one wants to see grandma naked
Not even poor old grandpa
But we will love her all the more
For chocolate chip cookies and loving hugs
You however my princess
At fifty x three, lovely and naked just for me
And I will love you to the very bone
When I'm done with you, you'll need an undertaker.
Because of what you did, you will meet your maker.
You had an affair with my daughter but neglected to tell her that you have a wife and kids.
I found a suicide note next to her body, she decided to end it all because of what you did.
When my daughter learned about your wife, she begged you to get a divorce.
You said it would never happen and now she's dead, and you don't even feel remorse.
When I found my daughter, I held her lifeless body in my arms as tears rolled down my face.
I'm going to have to kill you because you are a scumbag, a low life and a total disgrace.
You're laughing because you think that I'm bluffing, but I just put a bullet in your head.
I pulled the trigger and now as I look at your corpse, I feel jubilation because you're dead.
When you used my daughter, you signed your death warrant as well.
I hate your stinking guts and I really do hope that you will fry in Hell.
My father died
or changed but I
think that's the same thing
Because the man he was
still sits on my shoulders like a bruise
Why did he do this to me?
Why did he hand it over like it was anything that a child should hold?
Why can't I put it down?
They said poetry would help they said the art would be an outlet but it isn't an outlet this doesn't feel good anymore it feels like resurrection it feels like a fracture it feels like the longest suicide note anyone has ever written and I can't put the pen down i can't stop screaming I keep feeling all this rage well up in me and I don't want it anymore but I can't give it to someone else it isn't fair
For years she did nothing, knowing her husband abused the kids;
For fear that he’d turn on her, from his devious ways she always hid.
She tried to make it up to them by making life fun when he was gone,
But their spirits were too damaged; his shadow was too long.
She watched her children suffer through decisions she had made;
Turning a blind eye to the abuse is the hand that she had played.
She didn’t have the courage to make this monster stop;
She wanted to be stronger but, unfortunately, she was not.
She finally had to do something; she couldn’t take it anymore;
“Sorry” was the only word on the suicide note left on the floor.
1.
any colour may be applied to the
night-dress
this city actually has no cart
driven by horses
before a pretty long time the shepherds
had also told adieu
by secret signalling the red-hat addiction
called the pigeons sitting on the broken sticks
of the antenna to come nearer
on those dead-news the travel-story
keeps awake by whole night
and pours down on eye-lids
clouds
wrapped with cellophane
one day that wave sent
rolling-down-on-the-back hair
to the yellow balcony
those are all ancient drama
in the glow of the back-light you can see
civic humps have grown up on the back
of the birds every day and night
yet
under the dead-stop ceiling fan the dance
of the virgin reel wet with sweat does not fall short
the paper-buckles with the flowers painted on it
gets more and more tight on the air of the throat
velpuris of the evening
offer full enjoyment
2.
the night that comes all walking on the sands of the desert
how much concern does she has about the navigability of the river
when the husk of the water-chestnut is got open
flowing down the waves bursting into a blaze
to that flow is open the motor-car
the wan procession
and all the fishes that want to go upward the wave
so many varieties of floating
if the matter of clouds be let off
the multi-coloured fingers
also have so many infotainments
if the question of moveable property is raised
it is only a suicide-note from my father
and a knot
in the robe of the blue trouser
3.
the trees and creepers of the night
and the plants and herbs of the day
do all of them have the same blood-group
there is much flora
inside the jail-custody also
and in this ruins of the old palace
how much is it justified
to express eagerness about the geography
of one’s character
specially of the trees
of the fishes
or of the humans
it is said
all rivers
flowing through the bodies of the great men
are totally virgin
there is also the blank desert
on the silent snow-valley
in the corner of your
lips