5th Annual Poems About Suicide Month
It is now time for the "5th Annual Poems About Suicide Month" at The Pigpen, where we ask you to FIGURATIVELY slice a vein and pour out your depression onto paper (or make it up as that's what writers do).

Use this thread as your cathartic release.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
Methodical, Conflicted

Just have to find
the right mushrooms, mix
with like-looking edibles.
Can’t leave a note, though:
problem there.  On the whole,
“no one would know”
seems more a bug
than a feature.

Just to get the ball (or bolete) rolling...
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
The first part is easy.

But after,
what to do with the husk?
I don’t want to leave myself behind.
It feels too much like littering
to leave all this dust
for someone else to find.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara 

I know there's more interesting ways to die,
but I'm slowly killing myself.
Each drunk night a pebble concealed in my pocket,
every hungover day a step towards the water.

The ocean touches her skin slowly
as hands that grope in the dark,
its roar a moan some choose not to hear.

The flavor of salt a putrid kiss
that can never be washed away.

Eventually, water slaps her face
like an angry father,
who told her to get out.
Time is the best editor.
a minute, 
Relax every anxious doubt you
Think of
Keeping. If letting loose
Makes you stop everything, like failing,
Go on.  Only death
Breaks you. Enjoy.
Room for improvement 
The silence

Snow had just stopped falling
one winter morning, the soundless
world around me cold and clear
like a breath stilled between exhale

and inhale.

A hiatus. A place between.

Michael Hutchence knew that place,
returned often,
then stayed.

It calls me too.
Poetry can be dangerous, especially beautiful poetry, because it gives the illusion of having had the experience without actually going through it.

~ Rumi
feedback award

Razor Time

Spiders crawling on my head!
No, just thin rake-over strands
shifting, taunting, sparse.
Razor time, then, but
for scalp or wrists?
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
Hey Babe,
sorry about the rug.

I know you'll understand
when I tell you
they sounded like wolves, babe--
all of them

one, united, drooling pack of tooth and jaw
awake to my wound

always howling

and you the loudest.

I'm pretty sure this joke has already been done before, but still...


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