The table’s piled high with notes of
superficial grievances and artificial
condolences masked in cartoon hearts
and cherry scented markers.
With sentiments like these,
elementary valentines would better honor
2 lives that were destroyed from
the inside out. Infected minds
poked and prodded by their owners that
I can only describe in their unfortunate ends.
I won’t begin to say I understand
but as an index card as
comforting as the helping hand
that scribbled the lines with
scentless pen lands on the table,
I’m struck with guilt.
I would rather fold up those
Supportive words and stick them in
my pocket because maybe saving
a life would best put to rest
those that weren’t.
I’m an oxymoron, with one
hand on those stolen words I still
like to think about how the
barrel of a gun smells like burnt out
hope and gun powder, and
how much sweeter the air
is ten stories up…………..
That chance for you will never
come and I grieve on that.
Those steaming rails probably
tasted so good, until anxiety
spiked and the reality of the
situation actually actualized in
a bitter aftertaste.
After the fact, aftershave
burned those empty pores that
had been occupied before and
it’s our responsibility that where
life was cut down, new
life will grow.
I’m frustrated, these superfluous
“stay strongs” should have been
packaged with genuine smiles
personified in our species
days before you decided to take your last breath.
Instead your voice wouldn’t
be heard until your actions
spoke louder than words.
And, if anyone had captured
your final thoughts, they wouldn’t fit on a single, flimsy index card.
I know because real catharsis is
hard to come by, so if it’s my
turn, hand me a stack of 100 note cards
and I’ll return them with
thoughts too heavy to lay on regular,
And I’d rather hear you speak
your own mind than look at my
failed attempts crumpled up,
overflowing out of my trash can. ….
You were so much more than any amount of
hopeless words on an empty page,
my only remorse is that you
couldn’t see it that way.