Note From Dennis: The best poetry is poetry that is relatable in human spirit. This captures that very essence. We’ve all had bad days, we’ve all had those moments. And we’ve all thought these things. Very nice
I’m scared to write a suicide note,
because death is not the time for lies.
So what do I say?
Do I talk about how much I love you all,
or how little?
Because I’m not sure either is true.
So perhaps I should talk about how I’m going to a better place,
although I’m not that’s true either.
So instead ill say that generally
life is shit,
and I’m shit,
And please don’t cry.
And I’ll sign it with crosses-
two of them kisses,
the others on my wrist.
I couldn’t help but notice
the tiny worn cracks along the wooden table
where I sat eating homemade renditions
from a quite familiar chef (I like to call her mom)
As I slid my fingers across each one
I remembered the countless times
I sat at this particular table
How it must have bore heat
from numerous plates on numerous nights
How it must have felt clumsy spills and even tears
soaking into its deep surface of grain
I thought about euchre cards
sliding across its once pristine finish
and cigarette ashes dropping from careless lips
the beer rings from forgotten coasters
and liquid indents from mouths that missed
I suppose If this table could talk
it would tell about times I forgot to say “thank you”
or of my teenage years when it missed my presence
skipping a family meal for delinquent curfews
with those “friends” I don’t know anymore
Taking another bite from what seemed like
the millionth meal cooked by her hands
I noticed they were just as worn
Holding onto these very same memories
inside the cracks of the strongest woman
I have ever known
submitted by desayunogratis