its a suicide related poem

i was seven

and he was 30 something, i think.

well, he seemed old.

but everything seems old when you’re little.

he was a whirlwind

tumultuous

but passionate

& safe.

but angry.

he was the funny one.

the loved one.

the crawl up into his lap one.

the one that should have stayed.

but his demons caught him

and his out was permanent.

and his body still, lifeless, asleep.

wanting to touch his hand

his face

to wake him up.

to take the bandage off

his face.

to wake him up.

and as their tears flowed

and i turned my head round, to take notice

it was grief, i saw.

but didn’t understand.

he would never wake up, ever again.

his life he took, his life was his.

his act of defiance and self determination,

it was his.

and the grief i felt

then, but not knowing

was in-compared

to the grief

that came later.

when i

understood.

that he wasn’t coming back.

or waking up.

or building.

or yelling.

or singing.

or being.

he was.

is.

dead.

he wasn’t before, but

now is free.

and we are sad.


kpm ©


 

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