10-13-2010, 12:43 AM
Speeding towards my own special death,
will I drown, will I float, will I drink a vial
of posion, be smothered by a lover
in a hospital bed, like that man on the news
who killed his young "friend," as HIV
ravaged his waning system, leaving him
a skeleton, or will such thoughts abandon
me, until I'm old and they seem affable?
"To die would be a great adventure"
wrote J. M. Barrie, and though you may
think that quote melancholy, I see it
as a kiss, a true confirmation
of death's tenderness. Samantha,
when you drowned yourself,
left behind on the shore
not only your ex (were you
and my father divorced by that point?)
but two children by him and a third
previous, were you scared,
were you sad, like a woman
who must shoot herself
before her torturer returns?
Or was it bliss, a strange heaven,
as the waves took your waist
and performed the slow dance?
You weren't afforded a column,
just (eight?) lines of type
in a left hand corner. But that
doesn't matter, of course.
You didn't do it for fame.
If I wasn't a pathetic coward,
I'd accuse you of stealing my thunder
that night. But I am. So I shan't.
"There's no such word as can't"
my teacher once said, and I felt like
replying: "okay, I cannot."
I cannot kill myself, not anytime soon,
so I sit here composing these simple poems,
until life or my courage improves.
will I drown, will I float, will I drink a vial
of posion, be smothered by a lover
in a hospital bed, like that man on the news
who killed his young "friend," as HIV
ravaged his waning system, leaving him
a skeleton, or will such thoughts abandon
me, until I'm old and they seem affable?
"To die would be a great adventure"
wrote J. M. Barrie, and though you may
think that quote melancholy, I see it
as a kiss, a true confirmation
of death's tenderness. Samantha,
when you drowned yourself,
left behind on the shore
not only your ex (were you
and my father divorced by that point?)
but two children by him and a third
previous, were you scared,
were you sad, like a woman
who must shoot herself
before her torturer returns?
Or was it bliss, a strange heaven,
as the waves took your waist
and performed the slow dance?
You weren't afforded a column,
just (eight?) lines of type
in a left hand corner. But that
doesn't matter, of course.
You didn't do it for fame.
If I wasn't a pathetic coward,
I'd accuse you of stealing my thunder
that night. But I am. So I shan't.
"There's no such word as can't"
my teacher once said, and I felt like
replying: "okay, I cannot."
I cannot kill myself, not anytime soon,
so I sit here composing these simple poems,
until life or my courage improves.