I Know 100 Ways to Die

I know some poison I could drink

I’ve often thought I’d taste it

But mother bought if for the sink

And drinking it would waste it

– I Know 100 Ways To Die

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Suicide by Murderdoll17
Suicide by Murderdoll17

There was a phase that I went through, when the only poems I would write were suicide poems and the only poems I would read were suicide poems. Was I suicidal? I don’t think so. I just liked to think I was. Because being depressed seemed cool. And being angry was even better. I have a folder full of angsty verses. Every now and then I open it and spread out all the foolscap sheets in front of me, then laugh my head off at the absurdity of some of the poems.

Blood still is the focal point of many of my poems, but now, it’s usually the blood of others, not mine. Ha!

This post doesn’t have a reason.

My suicidal poetry never had a reason either.

It was just there.

A joke?

If I’m laughing at those poems, am I laughing at my past?

Or the apparent lack of a past worth writing about?

But because I wrote and read such a lot of depressing poems, I know 100 ways to die. Maybe I’ll list them down some day.

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7 Replies to “I Know 100 Ways to Die”

  1. Cool. I have some zillion ways to die if I come to that.
    Back then, I killed every pretty lady in my work. Just did it, without a reason.
    And I wrote the first poem on death, in grade 9.
    I’ll show you:

    “Rising from the depths of despair
    Waiting. Craving. Thinking.
    They talk, they show off.
    They hate, they make fun.
    I resent, I spit.
    And with the lanterns lit,
    I cry. I smother.
    Because life is nothing but a filthy bother.
    And I pick up the knife
    Hold it near the wrist
    And let myself wander in the unlimited mist
    Of despair.”

    So she dies, See. It just comes, without a reason. And people complain.

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