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Literature Text
I'm not the one with the reloaded gun pointed at my chest.
Step down and listen to mother because she might know best.
Disobedient, he goes ahead and pulls the trigger anyway.
And now poor old mother is alone and mourns every day.
Now the blood trickles on to the carpet;
Stains it with the colour of pretty roses
But now roses aren't red for me.
I'm not the one with the kitchen knife slicing at my wrist.
This cut just adds yet another self-injury to the list.
Enervated, she scratches away and tries to finish off the job.
So now the last sound the bathtub will hear is her sob.
Now the blood spills in to the water;
Dyes it with the colour of lovely roses
But now roses aren't red for me.
At the funeral contains
Their corpses, rearrange
the roses on their coffins -
so dark, so dark.
Now the blood pours in to the memories;
Tints it with the colour of death.
So give the dead their roses,
But those roses aren't red for me.
Step down and listen to mother because she might know best.
Disobedient, he goes ahead and pulls the trigger anyway.
And now poor old mother is alone and mourns every day.
Now the blood trickles on to the carpet;
Stains it with the colour of pretty roses
But now roses aren't red for me.
I'm not the one with the kitchen knife slicing at my wrist.
This cut just adds yet another self-injury to the list.
Enervated, she scratches away and tries to finish off the job.
So now the last sound the bathtub will hear is her sob.
Now the blood spills in to the water;
Dyes it with the colour of lovely roses
But now roses aren't red for me.
At the funeral contains
Their corpses, rearrange
the roses on their coffins -
so dark, so dark.
Now the blood pours in to the memories;
Tints it with the colour of death.
So give the dead their roses,
But those roses aren't red for me.
Literature
.r.e.d.
Blood-shot eyes
Broken hearts
That sweet, sticky liquid on my fingers
It's not mine
But it brings me some kind of satisfaction
As the shimmering edge pene//trates
The secretion
f
l
o
w
i
n
g
d
o
w
n
my arms
Sliding down my hands
And dripping from my
finger
t
i
p
s
It's my solace
My release
My drug
And the antidote
Is that your pain rema
Literature
Bravery
On Saturday the twenty-first of January, Elliot took a gun, pressed it to the strip of bone between his eyes, and shot himself. The bullet shattered the frontal bone of his skull, warping his features past recognition, and burrowed through his pre-frontal cortex into the midbrain. He died before the sound stopped echoing through his empty apartment.
This story isn't about that.
I worked with Elliot for only a little while—less than six months. Most of what I knew about him came from his desk. Unlike the smaller ones the secretaries and other reporters had, it was a stately, imposing thing. It would've been terrifying, especially to a
Literature
Crimson Love
My heart is broken, beaten and battered
Shattered like the most delicate of glass roses
It lies next to you in your bleak and desolate grave
The solemn hole you fell into when you took your final breath
Our life was sound, our love pure
Then we watched our walls come crashing down
As fate intervened in the form of reality
We heard the death clock's chilling chime
I'm left forlorn in this tragic world
I try to live but all in vain
It's not living without you
All that's left are my memories, my illusions, my delusions
The ominous blade, a reassuring friend in which I trust
Glistening with the tears I cry for what could have been
I
Suggested Collections
The first poem I've written for a while; saw the title sitting around in a notepad document on my computer somewhere, so I've had the title and a very, very basic draft for this for a while now. The only surviving piece from the draft is the first two lines - I completly eradicated everything else and started from scratch because it was just stupid to be honest.
This is possibly the most morbid piece of literature I've ever written. Half the time I write my poems I actually start off with the title and build a poem from that subject, so that's what was done here.
The whole connotation of red roses, blood and black roses at a funeral is used throughout. I always lend readers to build their own perception on these, though, so feel free.
Whilst writing this, I was unsure about this, and I myself am always unsure about the 'verses' in any of my poems, including this one.
However, I do now, after some time, regard this as one of my best. The only problem now is that I feel my next poem must be either as good as this or better, and I'm unsure I can achieve that.
Sorry about referencing to any sensitive issues here, namely suicide, death and funerals.
This is possibly the most morbid piece of literature I've ever written. Half the time I write my poems I actually start off with the title and build a poem from that subject, so that's what was done here.
The whole connotation of red roses, blood and black roses at a funeral is used throughout. I always lend readers to build their own perception on these, though, so feel free.
Whilst writing this, I was unsure about this, and I myself am always unsure about the 'verses' in any of my poems, including this one.
However, I do now, after some time, regard this as one of my best. The only problem now is that I feel my next poem must be either as good as this or better, and I'm unsure I can achieve that.
Sorry about referencing to any sensitive issues here, namely suicide, death and funerals.
© 2009 - 2024 Toadsanime
Comments114
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Overall Vision
Originality Technique ImpactWow, this poem is an excellent example of how a poet can be morbid while keeping a bit of beauty in life.
Vision: the effects that someone committing suicide may have on others. In this the father kills himself and the mother does like wise out of her despair. The son/daughter, narrator of this poem, is effected in a way that is certainly melancholy and up to interpretation of whether or not he will follow parents suit.
Originality:definitely a nice play on roses are red classic.
Technique: Upon my first reading i had thought that the narrator was the one committing suicide by both gun and wrist cutting but when reread i saw the cunning techniques used to show that narrator was the observer.
Impact: Hit me like a bag of bricks, the very thought of witnessing the loss of, not only one, but two parents out of suicide is horrid and sad, but instead of provoking despair in their reader as alot of other suicide pieces tend to inspire, this one creates concern and mutual sadness for the narrators loss and situation. The reader is left wondering will the narrator survive the insecurity which he must now feel, or will the narrator succumb to the despair, as mother and father did, and take premature leave of the world.