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Array
(
[sid] => 17322
[catid] => 1
[aid] => Mick
[title] => Letter not received
[time] => 2003-05-09 23:25:00
[hometext] => My teacher wants me to talk to her about what's going on in my head, but i don't know if i can. So instead, i wrote her a letter, but i havn't given it to her, and i don't think i will end up doing so. This poem is about the letter...
[bodytext] => For hours I sat at my desk,
The desk that saw me write my first suicide note, The desk that kindly endured my blood dripping onto it, So that I may get my quick relief from reality. From the moment I returned home that day, From that emotional day at school, I knew you deserved to know what was going on, And that I couldn't express it in voice, words were all I had. So I got out my paper, and my all too familiar fountain pen, And I wrote and wrote about what was wrong with me, And why what you think you know is true, And why I could never tell you. When I read the letter back, I realised what I had just written, My suicide note to my teacher, And I knew then that, by my hand, it would never reach her. So I kept it on my person, Everyday since that one day when you really found out, And you never got my suicide note to you, Instead it became your letter not received. Until the day you found me there, Lying stone cold on the cold stone floor, With the letter in my hand, I'd realised it did serve a purpose. And you cried as you read The letter you received too late [comments] => 3 [counter] => 170 [topic] => 31 [informant] => M [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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