Learning to Live (Staring suicide in the face)

Another one for my son....wherever he may be

Learning How To Live

 

The stars fall down

The wind cries out

And the earth rattles in frustration

Yet I remain alive

Famine unleashes

War has begun

And the young die young

Yet I have still managed to rise above this

The bills keep stacking up

My car has broken down

And I have bought another, and shortly it breaks down as well

Yet I ask myself “Im still here”

I feel alone and isolated

Confused and misunderstood

Taken advantage of by our system

Yet I continue to fight to live

I stare into the ceiling of a small childs bunk bed, with my computer flashing its red lights indicating it is losing its last source of energy. Flashing on, and flashing off in front of me.

I begin to become pleagued with my past throughout the night, and I cannot sleep, as much as I try.

I feel as if the world has stopped spinning and I have become frozen in time.

I feel like I have lost every ounce of what little pride I had once had and begin to cry, the wind howling along side of the windows of this foreign house.

“Should I have stayed with my mother?” I ask myself.

“Should I have just endured our constant yelling and misunderstandings in communication?”

The thoughts of her voice frustrates me, and I turn to lay on my side. Since Monday of this week, I feel as if the world had collapsed on me and I am unable to breathe.

“I had planned so much for this week” I say to myself, or perhaps to something unknown amidst in the stars.

Time begins to slow down

Things seem to be in black and white

And I feel as if I am malfunctioning in this life

For the first time since my epiphany earlier this year, I am tempted with a whisper so silent, so vigil that I feel tiny bumps begin to surface unto my skin. This ominous voice is myself, but I feel nothing but evil from this mysterious, denting voice. In the darkness with the flickering red light, it asks me if I should try again to end my life. It speaks to me with understanding, yet with pure pressure as if I had no other option.

“You have the power to end it all with a squeeze of a trigger” it whispers to me.

“Murder lays dormant inside the bullet, and only you can release it.”

But I don’t understand, I cry

“It is the end of all suffering- pull it, and you shall suffer no longer”

Pondering and pondering, I review all that has happened in the past week. All my plans for success had been sabotaged. I am not getting paid enough to support a child and myself, and was expecting to go to an interview to a major corporation. I have no money, both cars are broken down and me and my mother are not on good terms again.

I lay in a child’s bunk bed, with nothing but the cloths on my back and with the question the unknown keeps whispering in my ear:

Do it

Its your only way out

After this you will suffer no more

I cry like the child I was once was, and stare again into the ceiling. I try to clear my head, but my head is filled with black clouds.

Questions of survival

Questions of the future

And questions I have about my pride

All ricocheting in my head like a pinball machine.

Feelings of anger- towards those who are rich

Feelings of inferiority- towards myself as a person

Feelings of regret- for the wrongs I have committed

I ask God if this is Karma, then why is it that that Anderson b***h can get away with murder? If it was Karma, then how the hell can you expect me to live like this?

Moving one step forward, I have fell backwards and slid across the floor.

I dry my eyes, because they don’t care…But can pretend just once?

and make believe That He loves me?

The lights flickering in my face, I think of how I threw everything away

I have no friends, and I have no family, if so, then where are they now?

The picture of my son lay dormant in its slot inside my wallet and with week arms, I stare at it again. I see my baby boy, the prodigal son- and I begin to weep unto the photograph. His gentle soft hands slightly grasping mine- one stained with dirt and blood throughout the years, him staring with his eyes and piercing throughout my very soul.

Innocence is all I see staring at me followed by dependability. I grasp the photograph, my hands shaking within its grasp and ask myself

“Who am I to take my own life? Who the hell am I to let even anyone ELSE take my life?”

The voice comes back again to dwell into my conscience but I block it out of my mind. The gun was not for me, but for anyone that decided to threaten HIS life, and his alone.

Thoughts of negativity vanquish within the air. Everything they said I was and everything that they thought I was going to be is overridden in my head with bold, capital letters. The words PROTECTOR burn inside my skull and I feel a fire burning within me. A flame, pushing my heart to beat and a fire that keeps my body on edge to continue living. I feel the voices being drowned within this flame and I smile with tears in my eyes. The picture of my son, with his innocent eyes still piercing my soul with its humbleness feeds the fire burning inside me. My struggles and worries abandon me and I am left with nothing but tears and a photograph in the darkness. The flame still igniting within me, I have never felt so alive. I continue to fight another day of torment and depression,

Another day of black clouds and despair

Another night of questioning and anxiety

And survive another night with the demons that haunt me.

Though I have nothing more then the cloths on my back, all I need in this life has been instilled into my heart, and it pounds with meaning and purpose.

My son, my everything

My pride, my joy- my life.

All my life I have been questioning my state of living, and through you, as if I was from the womb again:

I am slowly learning how to breathe

How to walk

How to talk

How to feel

I am learning how to live

                             

  I love you,

                 Always and forever, my son.

J.R. ‘The Writing Writer’

Reviews

[Sky]

Very haunting, haunting images. The pain is clear and felt. I think you should work on the structure. You begin in short descriptive verses. I think it would serve the poem if you keep it as a vignette. It is powerful and the effect of this piece is a poetically disturbing punch that ends in a melancholy twist of awareness.

[Jen]

This is very deep...not sure if you would take this as a compliment or not, but while reading this i got the whole "8 mile" movie playing in my head. Someone who's had it tough, but refuses to give up. I loved it. And btw, 8 mile was an excellent movie.