Murder Death and Suicide
When I went home the other week I liberated a few keepsakes from my mother. One was a poetry (and I use that term loosely) assignment that I had to do when I was 10. 20 poems. In each one either someone died mysteriously, was murdered or committed suicide. If it would have happened in current times I most certainly would have been sent to a psychiatrist. As it was I got an A- because of all of my spelling mistakes.
I had forgotten what it was like to be me. . . then. A sample of the dark that was my mind. (these are the ones on the lighter side – I found most to unsettling to share):
I died and they do not know how,
I doubt they ever will.
My life, it was a mystery,
My life, a mystery still.
In the Dark
In the dark at the stroke of ten,
You could hear a long loud wind,
The drizzling rain,
The fog was dense,
Standing there, a grey picket fence.
In the dark,
As the clock struck once more,
A scream of the wind,
A slam of the door,
A clop of shoes, An echo calles,
The shadow stretching across the walls.
In the dark, as the clock struck again,
A knife sparkled sharp through the door, and then,
A smile, a laugh,
A scream of fright.
There was a murder committed tonight.
Gee, I wish I were alive agian.
To see, to feel, to cry again.
But I am only a ghost.
Never able to be again.
After I read it I asked mom “Weren’t you alarmed?”
Her answer. “always.”
Happy to be here in one piece with some peace.