"Suicide"

"Suicide"

A Poem by PoeT4994
"

Just a piece I wrote for a competition. It's better performed than read though. Built it around a line I came up with. Turned it into an addressment of a serious topic.

"
He exhiles himself.
He uses his hair to hide himself.
Fringe commits visual homocide.
His name is no one.
His face is many.
Scars run miles across his body as if his razors were Kenyan track runners.
He hides them, with hoodies and skinny jeans.
He hides them, with long sleeved hollister shirts, and baggy shorts.
He hides them, with flesh toned make up.
But, he is one of the most amazing people no one will ever know.
That kid at lunch, talk to him.
The loner at the Spencers of a mall, talk to him.
The random kid walking down the street at 3 in the morning, offer him a ride.
You might know this kid.
He has an imagination like an abstract painter.
He has intelligince leveling Einstein.
But no one will ever know.
Sometimes, the blades would dance.
They would ballet across his skin for hours at times.
Waltzing with pocket knives and switch blades.
His will, his will is not hard to find.
He carved it into his leg last week.
That kid, the one you look at weird because he's missing patches of hair...think.
Because this kid, he get's angry.
Sometimes he boils like metal plates in a lava bath.
And he turns to it once more.
With a grip that could threaten Atlas, he rips his world from a top his head.
He wishes his world was his hair.
Roots scream in agony as they string out from crimson patches.
Skin stretches like putty, and rips like paper.
He never washes his hair, do you know how bad it stings to mix soap into open war wounds.
He once was a boy scout.
They taught him how to make fires.
He contributes his missing finger prints, and the warped skin on his calf, to them.
He once baked himself.
The smell of burning flesh topped the air, there's nothing like fresh mutilation.
Sometimes he would swallow whole bottles of stolen pills.
They trickled down his throat like he had just found a fresh water fountain on a hot day.
It was his relief.
He never died.
He only slept, for days at a time.
He once dosed off for a week.
But he kept waking up.
Today is friday.
No one has seen him in two weeks.
He is in his room.
With notes stapled to his chest.
He slid bullets into place, slowly, as if father time rested in the barrel.
Father time did rest in the barrel.
His slumber seemed to hold time still.
But he was soon to be awaken.
He would jump out, scream suprise, and in the flash of a bang, the clock would sweep by as if hours were seconds long.
Russian roulette, with a full chamber.
Earthquakes snaked down his fingers.
They trembled.
Hurricanes lathered his skin, he shook.
He closed his eyes, for one last glimpse of darkness before the light.
His index slithered into place.
Copper is a nominal.
He goes about his own way.
But every once in a while, returns to pray at the temple.
Today, in Sunrise, he was feeling holy.
The safety reclined to take a break.
His finger signaled a click.
A click to turn to clack.
It clicked like claps.
Click, click, like taps.
Like snaps.
Like a final applause.
Like, standing ovation, and BANG!!!
Nine millimeter set skull to heater and blazed like projectile candles.
No handle.
No grip.
No choice.
But every choice.
You know this kid.
You see him every day.
Say hi.
You may not get a chance to when monday roles around.
To all all who I speak for, R.I.P.

© 2010 PoeT4994


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your poems always make me feel, i don't know why. and i don't know how to feel but..... anyways, AWSOME job dude Rating:100

Posted 13 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.


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Added on April 4, 2010
Last Updated on April 4, 2010




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