See You At The Next Show

Open, scene one, mid April.

It is 65 degrees outside

But he still feels cold

The trees in the city have come back to life

And he has yet to do so.

There is one thing that stands between him

And complete self destruction;

The pound of drums, the sound of guitar

The feeling of bass, piano notes flying in air,

The cry of horns, and memorized lyrics.

They cannot stitch his skin back together

But they can seperate the sad for a while.

Make it to the next show.

 

 

Scene two, late September.

The weather is cooling.

He is still dead. 

The longer he is, the worse he decays 

He will eat pills like candy

And test nature's sewing skills

He will continue to go deeper and deeper.

The suicide attempt is kept at bay

Because the amps around him drown them out

The more the crowd pushes, the less he feels.

And the less he feels, the safer he is.

Make it to the next show.

 

Scene three, mid July.

It has been four months since his last suicide attempt.

He misses your show because he's on a trip

That will lead to self discovery and recovery

He held what was once life in his hands

He sits in a dorm with friends that were strangers

Only a few days before.

Playing your music loud, hoping to elict the same emotion.

He will close his eyes and sing every word

Like it is tattooed on his brain.

Your music has been his rock for almost a year.

Make it to the next show.

 

Scene four, late December.

He has stumbled and fell, but he made it here.

He still puts nature to the test

And has a taste for prescription

But he carries himself a bit differently

Death is no longer a topic that lingers in his mind

And he can speak without shaking.

He screams the word to every song,

With his hand out the window, driving to see your show.

He has one last thing to do before he leaves:

Make it to the next show

 

Scene five, late June.

It has been one year and three months since his last attempt.

He is alive.

The broken bits of him have pieced together.

There is no candy poison gripped in his hands.

He still listens to you play with chunky headphones.

He makes beautiful things rather than destroying himself.

He has a future in the making

That wasn''t there six months ago.

He doesn't want to die

Because you helped him seperate the sad.

See you at the next show. 

This poem is about: 
Me

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