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
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.
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.