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Array
(
[sid] => 71016
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Worth dieing for?
[time] => 2004-11-10 20:34:33
[hometext] => This is actually my very first poem, or short story, or whatever, just revised many times...
[bodytext] => Why did I decide to do it today? Why did I find it so unbearable today that it had to happen? Today was a "good" day, at least for an unwanted homeless man. I had eaten enough to survive, and small paper cup from my last meal had not been stolen. No, it was because I saw her, I saw her again, and it hurt. It was a normal day, dinner was soon. It looked like I wasn't going to eat much. Nothing unusual. But as I held up my McDonalds cup to beg from a couple, I realized that it was her, and she was with him. I froze, my cup fell, and my daily earnings scattered away. I hadn't expected it. He laughed, I knew his laugh, it woke me. I never found out why he laughed. Whether it was because a dirty little man just lost four seventy six, something he wouldn't notice but would mean a meal for another. Or that he was laughing at a joke or amusing comment. But I knew he didn't laugh because he'd recognized me, though he would if he did. No, he wouldn't be able to remember my face, even if he had gotten a good look. My face has grown weathered and my hair, beard and skin were dark with dirt. He didn't even see me. But she saw me, she looked right into my eyes, my glazed, tear filled eyes. Did she recognize me? She stared as she walked by, entwined in his arm, furrowed her brow, and disappeared behind a corner. Forever... Razor blades don't cost much. And the homeless don't have much. Five dollars and eighteen cents if I recall, too much for me to buy but the storekeep gave them to me anyway. I remember him utter something about lowering the population as I left. Guess he knew my fate, my destiny. I don't know why I chose to die that way, there are other, less painful routes. But pain is beautiful. It's a sight to see how blood trickles down your forearm, gathers at your elbow, and drips off slowly. The blood is unmatched in beauty to anything. It helped the moon was ful, I love the moon. I seemed red to me, maybe it was just my eyes. I wanted to reach up and touch it, but I couldn't even raise my arm, so I just watched the blood. I soft, crimson glow was breath taking. How it shined so brightly on such dirty skin talked to me, as if it were trying to tell me that I still had a soul, that I was still pure. Inside. I didn't mean to get on television. My intent was to die the way I felt, alone, unwanted, and uncared for. I didn't think it would matter another bum died in another alley, that they wouldn't publicize it. I didn't think anyone would care enough to put me on the news. Then again, just because they did, doesn't mean they do. She saw the story, my face, my tears. It finally struck her how much I cared, and how much he didn't. He was next to her, on the couch. He didn't notice the story, notice her glassy eyes. It was his birthday and he wanted a present. He didn't even realize that I, in a way, gave him a present. Her. Because I had given up. She tried repeating my act of freedom. Why? To see me again? To ask me why? To say apologize? Or just for the attention and she didn't plan on going through with it. Whatever her intent, she couldn't go through with it. She couldn't, wouldn't bear my pain. What as I saw as beautiful, as freedom, she saw as something not worth the pain. I was forgotten there, left in a nameless plot, alone. I guess if I'm not worth living with... I'm not worth dieing for... [comments] => 6 [counter] => 150 [topic] => 13 [informant] => Unheard_Mute [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => DarkPoetry )
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