Four Years Later

When suicide took you, my whole world from me,

I had nothing to fall back on except poetry.

Grief had consumed my mind,

It filled inside me, and the only way to keep myself alive

was to pick up the pen rather than a bottle of pills, the sharp bladed knife,

or the noose I would wrap too tightly around my neck.

Poetry taught me how to live again.

I filled blank sheets of paper with words that read between the lines

of being sucidal and pretending to be just fine.

The mixture of tears and ink spoke a thousand words

those around me couldn't seem to hear or see.

In the depths of loneliness,

inside the dark edges of the mind where demons lie,

poetry was a beacon of hope.

It taught me how to write goodbye to you,

instead of leaving my family a note telling them I joined you on the other side.

Poetry taught me how to wake up every single day without you even if I didn't want to.

And look at me now,

four years later,

I am still alive.



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