the last poem

clutched, in the palm of the writer is a pencil.
at this rate the lead will snap before they are
found, choked by their own words, desperately
clinging onto nonsensical words to find
comfort in not knowing anything but somehow knowing
too much, a pencil is found in their hand. . well,
not quite in their hand, instead pressed
deep into their chest, warm red now turned
colder than their hands and their gaze, fingers
gently closing the eyelids, it's easier to pretend that
death is just a long rest for the tired
can suicide be justified by perpetuity?
without the forced entrance, would this life ever really
end just the way it's supposed to, in the right stanza?
even their letter seems too metaphorical for
death, a bit too fabricated to come across as
real, serious.

Author's Note

Pardon the nonsense.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

This is actually more serious than you might think. Can our poems somehow speak to us, convince us that they are useless and our writing doesn't matter. Could our words, our poems drive us to stab ourselves with our pen or pencil (figuratively) but then literally find us so distraught over negative criticism that we end it.
Or is a munber 2 pencil just a number 2 lie.
j.