Difference of Poets and Authors

Bleeding is mesmerizing, it fills me with a calm in the blood’s stead.

I am in panic over school, nauseous over everything. I just want to disappear, and walking amongst people, on sidewalks, is harder than I thought it would be. The cars, huge things speeding past me; and it would be so easy to just step in front of them. The subway; instant death if I only stepped forwards.

But I don’t want to ruin anyone else’s life.

Today I stayed out longer than I should have, and I know it’s stupid to do things one shouldn’t just to be noticed, but once I finally made it home, the only thing I was met with was confusion.

We thought you were sleeping, four people in the house and no one checked, I know you went to school, I drove you to the subway, but no one noticed me gone.

If not for my sister, I think no one would have noticed me coming home.

I don’t want to go to school tomorrow, I want to kill myself, or at least try, so that I don’t have to.

Sometimes I just want to lie down and weep, I want to be taken care of, taken seriously just once.

Not necessarily noticed, but at least looked upon as someone who is troubled, I want them to understand that dosage won’t help me.

I need to be acknowledged as someone who is ill, not an almost fixed thorn in everyone’s sides.

It is true, what Swinburne once said;

Hearts that strain at her chain will sever,
The link where yesterday frets to-morrow,
All things pass in the world but never,
Sorrow

It is so painfully true, all those lost, all those people who we lost, acquaintances, friends, family, loved ones. They never leave you, not the painful realisation that someone you’ve known your whole life has suddenly gone, not to mention that boy you thought were cute who was the only one nice to you. The cousin who treated you like an equal even with eight years of age difference. The loyal friend who slashed his wrists because everything that had happened, the oppression, the abuse, and the stress finally catching up.

The people who died at the hands of others, or at the mercy of terminal diseases.

All those people who were lost and never will be found again.

That grief, sorrow, all the mourning. They will never come to pass, like hours, like minutes, like seconds do. It will forever hurt, forever haunt me, just like the nightmares, just like the abuse will, the oppression, the bullying.

It will always be with me, will follow me until the end of days.

I just hope the end will be closer than other people expect.

Dad talked to me about funerals the other week. It wasn’t his, Nan’s, or anyone old’s. He talked about mine. Do you want to be buried, no, where do you want your ashes to be spread, in a garden, that’s illegal, what will they do, arrest me? no I suppose not.

My sister also told me mum would kill herself if any of her children died, I assume that’s the normal reaction, even though I know of loads of mothers who have said that, and not carried through.

Simon, Adam, Richard, Birgitta, Anna.

I think mothers stay on behalf of their other children, or on behalf of their spouses as with Simon and Richard.

I guess they can’t find the strength to carry through.

Even as a person in my young teens I had seen too much death, too many funerals, and too much grief. It is hard for me to carry on.

I don’t know how to approach all of this, I just know the location of my razors, the place where to cut, and how to follow through. It is hard for me to face things, even the simplest of situations make me long and yearn for escape and death. It should be; all things pass in the world but never grievous things, because even if Swinburne had seen sorrow, and he must have based on his work, based on his depiction of all things sorrowful, he cannot have known how long all kinds of mourning hurts and lasts longer than that.

Even life passes, but after life your grief becomes someone else’s, and that might be what he meant with his poem Sorrow, that even if you escape the bloody claws of living in mourning, someone else is captured in these talons. They are slowly consumed by it, eaten without knowing, and they won’t realise that they’re caught before it’s too late.

Then they are hold fast by it, because it won’t yield. No matter of how much they hurt themselves to be rid of the thing that has taken over their lives, no matter how much they try to fill that gaping hole in the middle of them, whether it be food, sex, alcohol, drugs, travel, books, films, friends, anything.

It will always be there, lurking, prying, prodding, until one weak moment, and it will consume them as a whole, and they will never be rid of it.

It is something that kills me, because even if it has consumed me, even if I will be rid of it by ridding myself of my own life and existence, it will find someone else and murder them in my stead, and I think that’s what’s keeping me alive, what has been keeping me alive for so long.

Even if it’s a skyscraper to carry, a weight so great I am suffocating, I might be willing to drag it alongside me if only I had someone who would help me lift it to ease the way.

If only the fire stopped burning,
If only the flames stopped their licking of my heels;
When it stops, I will not,
I will carry onwards with the weight on my shoulders,
But if it continues, the endless fire,
I will cease my existence,
And the responsibility will lie on another young soul’s corporal being.

If only referring of my old, senseless, nothing, which I called myself in times of confusion, if it only could be applied again, I would.

But knowledge of my new interpretation of Swinburne’s Sorrow  is keeping me here, giving me a sense of misplaced importance, and I don’t know if I should hope it’s enough, or if I ought to ignore it.

If the confusion would only lift for a moment,
If I could only see clearly through the tears,
I might finally decide whether living is worth it.

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About thezonesystems

Former miserable, confused teenager - now sad and confused trans adult(ish)
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One Response to Difference of Poets and Authors

  1. Oh my gods, that is true. I feel like if I kill myself the sickness in my brain will be passed on to someone else to suffer from. I’m thankful that my immediate family was spared it.

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