Slit my throat,
Slit my arms,
Stab that knife in both of my palms,
Get me out I want to go,
The pain in my eyes never seems to show,
Mom and Dad just don’t see, what she really meant to me,
My love for her will always be,
As the blood pours away from my lifeless heart,
I think of her name and carve it deep, a work of art,
I lie there and numb the pain,
My love for her is driving me insane…
Yesterday I tried to commit suicide…
The good news is..I didn’t succeed…
You don’t know how much I tried…
And cut just to watch my arms bleeding…
That night I really wanted to die…
I even went looking for pills…
As much as I tried me just couldn’t cry…
Just something I couldn’t feel.
It’s never as hard as it looks.
You have to trust and believe me.
Cutting can get you hooked.
And left with the feeling of uncertainty.
Or at least that’s what happens to me.
I try so hard to die and don’t succeed.
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you’ll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
Anger is the devil inside our locked up souls,
Anger is the spirit in which I withhold,
Anger such demons who never is told,
Anger is which never ever grows old.
Anger is a lie when someone’s in trouble,
Anger is always there on the double,
That’s what anger is!
Anger is a virus
That needs not even air
To propagate contagion
Whenever it is shared.
Anger can’t be placed in quarantine
To contain its vicious spread
For anger feeds upon itself
And burns a flaming red.
Anger is all consuming
Anger does not desist
From destroying sensibilities
In that haze of its red mist.
Searing reason and rationale,
With the seething rage of rash,
Like the red blaze in the wild jungle,
Anger, in its impulsive brash,
Melts all hope’s and dreams to ash;
High up above the open, welcoming door
It hangs, a piece of wood with colors dim.
Once, long ago, it was a waving tree
And knew the sun and shadow through the leaves
Of forest trees, in a thick eastern wood.
The winter snows had bent its branches down,
The spring had swelled its buds with coming flowers,
Summer had run like fire through its veins,
While autumn pelted it with chestnut burrs,
And strewed the leafy ground with acorn cups.
Dark midnight storms had roared and crashed among
Its branches, breaking here and there a limb;
But every now and then broad sunlit days
Lovingly lingered, caught among the leaves.
Yes, it had known all this, and yet to us
It does not speak of mossy forest ways,
Of whispering pine trees or the shimmering birch;
But of quick winds, and the salt, stinging sea!
An artist once, with the patient, careful knife,
Had fashioned it like to the untamed sea.
Here waves uprear themselves, their tops blown back
By the gay, solar wind, which whips the blue
And breaks it into gleams and sparks of light.
Among the flashing waves are two white birds
Which swoop, and soar, and scream for very joy
At the wild sport. Now diving quickly in,
Questing some glistening fish. Now flying up,
Their dripping feathers shining in the sun,
While the wet drops like little glints of light,
Fall pattering backward to the parent sea.
Gliding along the green and foam-flecked hollows,
Or skimming some white crest about to break,
The spirits of the sky deigning to stoop
And play with the ocean in a summer mood.
Hanging above the high, wide open door,
It brings to us in quiet, firelit room,
The freedom of the earth’s vast solitudes,
Where heaping, sunny waves tumble and roll,
And seabirds scream in wanton happiness.