A Requiem of Boars and Knives

Before you read, and also for myself so that I may preface what I’m about to post in my own mind, I wanted to explain this poem. If the content or intention of this poem is alarming in its subject material or the volatile darkness of its nature, it is because it is so. This poem does discuss suicide, as it was written in a point in my life where I was struggling daily with intense feelings of anguish and self loathing and was constantly self-prompted to exact hurt on myself. I dealt with these feelings very often, but I stopped. When I moved to college, when I partitioned myself from the old existence that was Frisco and the bindings of my household, by no means a defamation of my family, I gained the strength and the self awareness to seek help for myself. It was a struggle at first, as I was conditioned to think that seeking help was a sign of weakness, but eventually I realized the folly in that. And I’m better now, not completely cured or done with anything, but on a recovering road from myself and my dysfunctional upbringing. I say all that, because in re-reading this, I was shocked to realize that I had posted it on Facebook, where I was “friends” with the vast majority of my high school. Even more shocking was how I posted this in junior year and for a whole year and a half no one ever asked me about it or how I felt or ever tried to address the pain I was feeling and that I would eventually exemplify self-harming behavior in plain sight of my classmates. I think I maybe I scared people with this. I think people didn’t know what to think. I don’t think I ever tried to illicit fear or anxiety, I just had this desire for companionship and attention. Now, I post this poem again, here, because it reads well,and because it communicates a very deep and real pain people experience, and to have something presented in its most articulate volatility is something cathartic. I wish, growing up, I knew more of people who survived these feelings, rather than those who succumbed to them.  If you go through a difficult experience, you owe it to others in that experience to relate to them and let them know they’re not alone. I’m, really, just a person seeking to be functional and to be accepted by others.


Welcome to my hell

With no hope to sell

Upon another the life fell

It is all yours, enjoy

Enjoy the screaming lunatics down the halls,

The constant animosity that greatly appalls

Enjoy that stinging pain in your heart, it calls

It calls to you to end your misery

It wants you to take that damned blade

Let it sing as it, in your flesh, fades

From your conscious, all that you made

Unravels before you, a requiem no one will sing

For there already is one, the belligerent roar

Of two people, relentless and mad, that are boars

They won’t rest until forever closed is that door.

You see that door? I see a prison cell.

I see it through tears, through all the pain

Hoping some soul will reach through my mane

To embrace the crying child who everyday feigns

But lo, the singing blade, it’s all a dream

Because even if I do hold it my neck, no one comes

The screaming will then be directed at me, I’m glum

I cry inside a lot, I hurt; I die in secret, and then some

But I laugh, because I have better dreams to attend to

That knife is used to slice the ingestion of my sorrow

I go about, alone everyday, to my lonesome with no affection

The pain is within, to fuel dreams that seep from my morrow

So, welcome to it, my hell

It’s a frozen little tundra to dwell

In the darkness where loneliness impels.

Don’t be afraid.

It’s a numb feeling now.

Ignore my tears, say ciao

Pretend I’m more dramatic than thou

You can pass by the window, but misery shall always be there.


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