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.
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
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...

 Marigold parts II, III and IV. I left the first part out. 
                                “pictures all in a row”
       "I Must Have Died Alone, A Long, Long Time Ago"
                                      Kurt Cobain (David Bowie)
Women are wicked, but a man has drugs
or skills. Put the Weird Sisters record on pause,
they'll be there,
you run out and they'll know where to get it,
where the red fern, the sidewalk,
the weather suits, the proverbial
predicates they've had all along
in the back of their good-natured eyes.
The two things a man needs, she can provide.
Your parents have their own lives,
like everybody,
each is a clone of two
in one, and all was.
We're never alone,
even when we die.
That must be why you couldn't just retire,
bring the parents with you, all the stomachs
and corporate magazines. And your daughter,
you and her all over again.
A Lady Macbeth who just wanted celebrity
can get it on her own.
Though there's small profit in comparisons.
That legendary suicide is such a bore.
                 "I'm an Ignorant Man"
I don't know you,
your first defense is your best,
and each who come back
to recharge on your angst
and penultimate miseries,
a tourist running the bulls
in a suit of armor,
and now play you over and over
like the man who's had enough
at a live press conference
removing his life from an envelope,
receive their inspiration from a ghoul
now rotten or charred
like any victim of their own ignorant fate.
For each individual hope is different,
what couldn't be prevented can't be changed, and
each new instance is a new instance
without the slightest resemblance, despite outcome.
Death is the least Romantic thing,
it's immortality through tragedy
and people who are remembered,
a whole world in a scene, a realm
that becomes this world forever.
Your trailer looked more
like a yardsale nobody wanted.
Nobody learnt their lesson but you
in your last moment;
if they had no time for you in life,
how much more they have now.
You swung in the ignoble gloaming
for 20 minutes
with no one except indifferent crickets
if some joker hadn't called you;
not a dog, if you climbed up there
a cat trying to get away,
to sniff round the base of that resolute tree.
You're not the first or the last,
barely an iota;
though you earned full name status
with us, like Lee Harvey Oswald,
you didn’t kill a president,
only yourself;
any precedent you set
is nothing to speak of.
Though, things have grown
quiet, nor Cassandra nor adolescent Sibyl,
you remain only you
as if no higher self was possible,
now no dilettante idol in fields of rye need
eye your dancing steps too close to the edge;
in your eyes there was play, then this.
Not famous for doing nothing
in your off hours, a sister-mother to your siblings,
then this.    
                     Parts Unknown
The snake was not a rope
and wouldn't bite you,
it was your way out.
But you wanted the Garden.
For the cruel world to go away,
but you only wanted reality;
not a god to watch you like a mirror
in your anxious moments
getting ready to go out on your bike
or catch the bus.
Louise, you had nothing already,
why did you need more
to prove you there is nothing in the dark
but a body just as gorgeous empty
and our beauty empty,
and your love just another memory
that must become more and more forgotten
over the years if one's expected to go on.
The Call

the job
the house 
the wife 
the kids

the bills
the calls
the bills
the calls

the job
the bills
the job
the bills

the calls
the calls
the call
(08-24-2018, 04:58 AM)Tiger the Lion Wrote:  The Call

the job
the house 
the wife 
the kids

the bills
the calls
the bills
the calls

the job
the bills
the job
the bills

the calls
the calls
the call

the last line made me think about whether it was the narrators suicide or someone else's. either way, an effective statement about modern life/ society. at least that s what i read into it at the moment.

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