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Array
(
[sid] => 485
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Trent
[time] => 2002-07-15 21:11:59
[hometext] => I personally consider this one of my best works ever, though people have questioned what I really meant by the plot of the whole thing. This was written about three years ago, and along with being one of my best, it is also one of my oldest works. When i wrote Trent, it seemed to me that there was an air in society, especially amongst young people, that suggested that suicide was not only acceptable, but also cool. Trent was written originally as a means of stripping away all the so-called "glory" of suicide, though as i have come to show more and more people this poem, i have heard many wonderful new interpretations of it. It seems that this work touches everybody in a different, but equally meaningful way. Read it, then let me know what you think.
[bodytext] => All dressed in black with one lip pierced, Young Trent Babbette looked awfully fierce. With skin as white as fresh new snow, He’d showed the world they didn’t know The pain inside of his sweet heart That built up there before depart. For fifteen years, the pressure built. Flowers can’t bloom after they wilt. For fifteen years of rosy cheeks, His parents paid eleven weeks. On April thirty-first, he lay And wasn’t getting up that day. His father forced him out of bed, And for the crime, his son was dead. On April thirty-eighth, he met The future Gloria Babbette. She left him on their wedding day, And for the crime, that girl did pay. On April forty-fifth, he went Out to become a brand new Trent. From jeans and tees to blacks and slacks, From hurried life to one more lax, A brand new Trent Babbette was born, And when he saw his parent’s scorn, He cursed their morals and their life, And moved in with his future wife. On April fifty-two, he bought A small white terrier named Scott. It served it’s purpose, went against His father’s omnipresent fist. Scott was a comfort blanket now, And that made Trent happy somehow. On April fifty-ninth, he saw An old man kiss his Gloria. But he denied it and moved on, And sat outside that night ‘till dawn. On April sixty-sixth, he slept All day and night, and inside, wept, Remembering the last week’s sight, He (with Scott) endured the blight. On April se7en-three, he went To ask Glori’s commitment, Her hand in marriage, so he thought, would build in her the trust he sought. On April eightieth, he took His dog outside, just for a look, And for a chance to sniff around, When a corvette flattened his hound. He ran to where his dog had died, And sat, and stared, and cursed, and cried. Without his dog, poor Trent would die, There was no way he could survive. On April Eight-Se7en, he got back in his old habits with pot. He smoked a whole big bag my friend, Then bought some more, and smoked again. On April ninety-fourth, he tied The knot, then cheated on his bride. At the reception, he was caught With Glori’s sister, getting hot. His new wife left him then and there Despite her wrongs, she didn’t care. He ran straight home to his dog Scott, And remembered what he had forgot, And his whole world came crashing down. He spent that night walking around. By April the one-hundred-first, He knew that life couldn’t get worse. He’d moved back in with Mom and Dad, And everyone was very mad. His life style went down a bit, No cash, no job, a drug habit, And with all that, his mom and dad, Yelling every chance they had For every little thing he’d done. They told him he was a bad son. Fueled by anger and his strife, He chose to end his sorry life. April one-hundred and eight Would be Trent Babbette’s final date. He killed his dad and killed his mom, Then looked at where his life had gone. He knew that he could not repent, Went to his room, and got some hemp. He’d lost the world that he abhorred So with that hemp, he made a cord and tied it in a hangman’s noose. For him there was no getting loose. He wanted to, had to succeed. He could not fail this final deed. He threw his knot over a tree, And killed himself, and you, and me, And as he hanged, his final thought Was of his terrier named Scott. The police found him hanging there. And right away, they cut his snare. “Awww… that’s a shame,” was all they said, No one he knew knew Trent was dead. A wooden cross set for the knave Is all that marks his shallow grave. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 203 [topic] => 36 [informant] => Butterat_Zool [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 4 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Suicide )
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