Archive for October 16, 1993

yes I write poetry, I’m a poet
and I can’t crawl in bed with you
when I’m hurting;
my heart was shattered –
a wine stemmed glass on the freeway
a sheet of glass and a baseball
a face of a clock thrown to the pavement
into slivers
silver slivers
shivering silver slivers
and I can only think of
you lying on my bed believing
breathing your belief
that it will be OK
in the morning,
my friends outside
thinking that I’m OK
or will be that way
when I sober up
in the morning;
parents, separate, so far away
missing each other and still
hoping for me
to cure insanity
and be happy
with a world full of me.

Notes from Cutting My Wrist

Posted: October 16, 1993 in Poetry
Tags: , ,

I : Bloodstain
someday this piece of paper
will contain a dried, flaking bloodstain
that I can laugh at and feel good about because
“I don’t DO that anymore”.
but right now it’s fresh from my wrist
and I do that right now and
life
really
hurts.

II : Recipe
1) one bottle of scotch whiskey
2) one glass
3) several ice cubes
4) one exacto knife kit (or a bunch of razorblades, whatever you prefer)
5) one poetry notebook (or paper of some sort)
6) one pen or pencil
7) one broken promise about no more suicide attempts because you are “past” that.

yes, like I’m past hurting.