kamikaze

First of all, the poem I am about to present is tough. Being on anti-depressants has caused me to feel well enough to deal with issues I typically stuff away. One being my tendency to have sucidal thoughts and desires. This is what those feelings are. I would love to be able to walk in the light with these things, and that you may have a better understanding of what those are. But I don't want to unintentionally make you carry a burden you are not prepared or willing to carry. In that case, please don't read this.


I know, first hand, what causes
a grown man
to tip toe down into his basement,
gently press his knees into the floor,
feel the cold barrel of a gun at his temple

It's what a jelly fish goes through
from ocean to glass cage.
It's tentacles buried in the sand
of a retched place she was forced to call
"home."

It's when the last leaf falls from the tree,
and the last beat
hits your last nerve.

It's the train wreck that makes the sound
of his bloody shirt tumbling in the dryer.

It's the tap tap tap
of your shoes on the pavement
going, or leaving, it doesn't matter
because each breath feels like thorns in your lungs
and you pray to God you don't have to do it
one
more
time.

Because you're bored.

You're bored of the same old shit
that weighs too heavy on your eyelids.
The same old shit
and pushes the knife to your wrist and says,

drag.

It's the time between
stepping over used condoms
to get to your after morning shower
the time between walking to the liquor store,
(listening to the
tap tap tap
of your shoes on the pavement)
and watching the cork
fall into a bottle of wine.

It's how the beard of the man
who beat the hell out of you
can smell exactly the same
as the beard of the man you love,
who hurt you just as much.
so you start to beg
to see your blood glistening in the sun
You start to beg
that you would just have the fucking nerve
to not come back up
after diving in the ocean.


But you always come back up.
You always do.