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Array
(
[sid] => 131848
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Final Farewell
[time] => 2007-02-17 15:51:57
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => I'm going on a hiatus from my poetry to concentrate on some other aspects of my talent, maybe a book of some kind. So I wanted to leave my friends who unwaveringly supported me with the comments and praises on my work the very best. I really worked hard and put a lot of thought into this piece. I hope you enjoy and sing its praises to everyone you meet in life. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I wince as the blade comes into contact with my skin. Most people fear death, not knowing where their soul will go when the time comes. But not me, you can say we've been friends since I was a child. I put a fraction more pressure on the razor and feel my skin start to give, the cold bite of steel taking me back to the beginning of this end. Screams echo inside my head, like the concussive wave from a grenade explosion. The red handprints across my face, burning with hate. A smile breaks across my face, like the Cheshire cat, as I remember that hate. I press a little harder on the blade and the first glint of my lifeblood peeks out at me. I want this to be slow, so I relieve a little bit of the pressure and start the first cut, from wrist to elbow. As the razor breaks through my skin, it leaves a small red line in its wake, and I shiver in anticipation of the next cut. I return the blade back to the starting point and memories of my childhood assault me. Back to the foster homes and the bad people I ended up with. Countless sleepless nights accompanied by the growls of an empty stomach. Broken bones, black eyes, bruises, busted lips. The endless questioning from teachers and hospital staffs. My birth mother was a drug addict so I was placed in foster care, where I was tortured endlessly. Anger flashes before my eyes over the cowardice of my mother and her addiction to the substances that ruined her life and eventually took it. I rake the razor down my arm again, going a little deeper out of frustration. The blood starts to flow faster; down the side of arm it drips, staining the water in the bathtub. I see my face reflected in the red-stained water and I hate myself. I often blame myself for the way my life unfolded. Had I not been born, my mother would not have had to turn to drugs to cope with the harsh realities of raising a child by herself. In turn I would not have had to go through the pain and dysfunction of being placed in a foster care system that could have cared less what happened to the son of an addict who didn't deserve him. Tears now struggle to free themselves from my eyes. "Why didn't I try harder?" I moan in despair and a mental agony that has haunted me from the moment of my birth. I was scared, scared that one day I would be happy when so many people in the world was suffering in life. I choke back the tears and fight away the memories and pity I feel for myself. I place the razor back to my skin and commence with the third and final cut. I drop the blade on the bathroom floor and sink back to relax against the back of the tub. The water is now an opaque pane of glass the color of roses. The rusty stench of my blood invades my senses. Deeper and deeper I sink into the darkness of creeping death. My breath comes shallower and slower. The blackness has now completely stolen my sight and with my last breath I mutter, "I'm sor…" [comments] => 6 [counter] => 364 [topic] => 36 [informant] => trackiller2006 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Suicide )
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