Lies... softly spoken. A poem... with disclaimer*.Brains on the bathroom floor
Gloating
Consciousness above me
Floating
Despair at life unlived
Responsibility relieved
Bucket made of bone
A sieve
Whispers of all doubt
Believed.
Gloating
Consciousness above me
Floating
Despair at life unlived
Responsibility relieved
Bucket made of bone
A sieve
Whispers of all doubt
Believed.
This poem is a companion piece for the article "With This Muse You Lose", which first appeared on Broowaha.com on March 28, 2007. This poem was written on March 21, 2009. Obviously, for the author, March is not a very good month.
* DISCLAIMER: Bill Friday does not endorse suicide as a "solution" to the problems of this life. This disclaimer should be read, and strongly taken into consideration (possibly with the counsel of a mental health professional).
Copyright © 2009 Bill Friday
A woman looked up from her hospital bed, and in a haze she squinted her eyes and semi-focused on what appeared to be a doctor sitting beside her bed. "You didn't really want to kill yourself did you," he said, not asked. "No," she answered. "I...just...I...just..." He finished her sentence, "You just wanted it to stop."
ReplyDeleteThat's why he got paid the big bucks.