Well, I’ve never broken down in tears on stage, but this one hit me hard right in the middle.This is a departure from my usual work, but, it’s something that I think needs to be said. I said sometimes it seems like having the soul of a poet is like having an open wound. I just feel things, very deep, so deep that when I try to shake it, it rattles around, but won’t get out of my head until I write it or perform it…and even then.. it isn’t always exorcised.
Damn it Mr. Williams
Damn it Mr. Williams
Why the fuck.
Why don’t we cry for a person
When they’re still alive?
Why when they’re hurt,
Can’t we do more than make a face
and say ‘I sympathize’
Why doesn’t another person’s pain touch us until they’re gone?
Why can’t take away another person’s pain at all?
And why are people with such a depth of empathy, the tenderest caring souls who let the world truly touch them,
treated as though they’ve lost their minds,
Even before they lose their minds.
The end of life is death,
and death should make the story arc complete,
it feels as if when a person commits suicide their lives become a book with the last chapters torn out.
Damn it Mr. Williams, Damn it Ms. Monroe,
Damn it Hemmingway and Mr. Conaway and Gray
and Thompson, Plath, Hutchence, and Woolfe and Cobain
And Van Gogh
And everyone who ever killed themselves,
because, there was more story
And Damn it Justin
And Damn it my cousin
And Damn it my friend in high school
And I can’t judge
Damn it Me
I considered it too, so many times,
Stood right at the edge and looked down,
It looks so easy on TV
But it’s not
It’s hard to override the body’s overwhelming need to self preserve
When a person truncates their own fate, it has taken every last part of them to fight for that break.
I’ve driven blind,
and sped through bottles of pills,
never really attempting
still challenging death to take me
but I’m not hers yet.
I took the fear and the queasy chest
The endorphin high of pushing too far too fast as evidence that even though death was standing so very near,
That the fear was in some way,
a desire to live.
When you’re dead, you can’t change anyone’s mind anymore
And you can’t change you’re own ever again either.
If the one constant of existence is change
Even when the possibility of change doesn’t matter to me anymore,
I know objectively that will change too
Some suicides are selfish,
they don’t think about anyone else’s harm
But some care too much
Because an open heart
can be an open vein gushing empathy and love
The church has it wrong
these will be saints too
Because saints, are people who give everything
Giving so much, but not knowing how to accept the same gifts in return
Damn it Mr. Williams,
Damn it Robin, can I call you Robin?
and damn them whoever they are
The people or molecules in your brain, who pushed you to break and not bend.
I wish you had just one more change of mind, one more chapter.
You were author to a book,
No one but the writer wanted to end.