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Suicide isn't a Thank You - Collaboration Work

Suicide isn't a Thank You

 

SachikoMochiko & SinisterPotatoe (Jack)

 

“Jack!” my heart falls into a deep, dark, cold abyss as saltwater crystals rush like a waterfall down my cheeks. He ended it. Officers held me back, refraining me from attending his bloody body…his soul has left.

 

Three months’ post-Jack’s departure, I scuffle his belongings. The old apartment was dewy and rusty at the same time. My calloused fingertips hover past a dusty paper. Hidden. Hidden behind his mirror. I carefully unfold the dust-magnet flat. A poem:

 

From the hollow pit of my emotions, I’ve reached the end

 

The end, that determines my fate…

 

I’ve reached the end, my only friend

 

The end, that leaves me bent

=

 

Around the bend, regards have been sent

 

The very bend left the very dent

 

As I fend off the reality…I’m bent

 

=

 

O’ since the blood drips to my fingertips

 

We struggle…I struggle

 

I know it’s hard, we’ve come so far, but everything will eventually be over

 

Like a story…all stories end, eh?

 

So, I’ll be the one to end it

 

=

 

What goes up must come down…it’s the law

 

But the law isn’t any determinant…

 

We protect the law, right?

 

==

 

Shhh…

--

 

Before my empty shell is found dead

 

Before my empty shell, where my soul left, morphs back to the Earth…where I belong

 

 I promise not to frown

 

 If you’re still in town, I beg you visit my grave,

 

 but I’m sorry my sadness wasn’t a faze

 

And if your soul is more than grazed by my departure

 

Know that through all the torture and the pain,

 

Through all the blood, the tears and the wails…

 

 you were the one who kept me sane

 

==

 

Surely, this is an excuse

 

Well, my only friend…

 

I am mistaken, I am not bent

 

I am not dented

 

But I am broken…unable to function anymore,

 

in this beautifully rotten world

 

=

 

Sunshine or rain, I beg you to refrain from crying,

 

 because at least, I am healed through death

 

I’m biding my holy time, with every new rhyme it’s a struggle. I can’t smuggle happiness back into my life…

 

It’s against the law…the laws that I wrote inside my young, naïve mind

 

The very laws that kept me in this cage

 

With all this baggage and luggage, I act like I’m at peace

 

At heart, I’m being weighed down by myself

 

I pound at the barrier between me and others, my prison,

 

I’m chained and bound, pulled down, buried in the mud, I was forgotten

 

But I’ve risen above it

 

I love it, life, and every knife in the back has brought me a crack in the wall,

 

however small, someday I’ll break free

 

I’ve brought forth emotions that have sought to honor the ones who never run from my side

 

I don’t abide by reasons to cry unless they are tears of joy or a new way to get stronger

 

When I rot, when my body is nothing but issue

 

a goner north of my goals, dead in my hole at least I’ll know my soul was honorable

 

And if your sad, don’t be

 

I know you think suicide isn’t a thank you, but it’s a sign of escape

 

Escape from this prison that binds me…

 

Twists me…

 

Bends me…

 

Breaks me…

 

Have faith, my honors always been a stake, don’t worry, fake words, tongues that lie will eventually break

 

===

After all, what goes up must come down

 

 

And when that happens you will no longer frown, stick around and keep your mouth shut until you have the right to speak

 

Because suicide may kill me, and weak freaks are fodder for lies, and propaganda flies its flag until the target dies, but words won’t kill the truth

 

And even though I’ll never know it, you will, write the story, and don’t worry about me

 

I’m already free

 

-Jack

 

Once again, saltwater crystals flow down my cheeks. By not like a harsh waterfall, but like little fairy steps, tickling down my sullen flesh.

 

“May your soul be free”

 

 

 

 

This is an extended version of SinisterPotatoes (Jack) original poem Suicide isn't a Thank You. See it here: http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/SinisterPotatoe/1972625/

Hope you like it! (especially you sir, SinisterPotatoe (Jack))

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is an extended version of SinisterPotatoes (Jack) original poem Suicide isn't a Thank You. See it here: http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/SinisterPotatoe/1972625/
Hope you like it! (especially you sir, SinisterPotatoe (Jack))

Just added a little tang to it...that's all - SachikoMochiko


How I can improve: Quote from JayG


• “Jack!” my heart falls into a deep, dark, cold abyss as saltwater crystals rush like a waterfall down my cheeks. He ended it. Officers held me back, refraining me from attending his bloody body…his soul has left. 

This has emotional impact when you read it because you know who "Jack" is. You know who's speaking, who's bloody, and what they are to each other. You know where they are in time and space, and what's going on.

In short, you supply the emotion content as you read, because the words act as pointers to images, information, memories and more, all stored in your mind.

But the reader has only what the words suggest to them, based on the words they've read to any given point. So for them, your words act as pointers to images, information, memories and more, all stored in YOUR mind.

You either need to point to triggers in the reader's mind, or include them in the narrative.

Because of that missing context, when you reach the poem section, it's someone we know nothing about lamenting a situation that's unknown.

The voice "telling" this to the reader knows what's going on because they have context. You know for the same reason. The writer of the poem—that bloody unknown who's quoted knows. Even the officers holding this person of unknown age, gender, and situation back know. But you wrote this for the reader.Shouldn't they know, too? How can it hold emotional content for that reader if they don't view the events as you do?

In writing, context isn't just important, it's the key to reader involvement, and the reason that we need to edit from the reader's seat, not based on our intent. When we release our words, our intent, and everything about us becomes irrelevant. It's our words and how we place them, and what they suggest to-the-reader, based on their background, not ours.

Sorry my news isn't better. 

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

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{The Willow}

 

The weeping willow cries for you

Until winter sucks up its breath 
Coming anew is a thorn 
The willow provides shelter
With curiosity of the thoughts below
But cannot hear 
You're beckoning the same melody 
As up above 
If two beings feel pain 
Does it make a sound?
No
Time replaces all losses
Soon they'll both be at times end 
The clock stopped
Or rather skipped 
The unfortunate end to this tale
Sympathy grew old early 
and passed 
Along with guilt
and remorse 
Providing no new seed 
For the loam below 
 
View ciararaee's Full Portfolio