Poetry about suicide

3 - Names

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His stature is tall, so often he talks
And his baritone voice, it goes over their heads,
His name, it is Luke, it's sturdy but loose,
It fits around many people, a rope tied - a noose
For most, but not him, his optimism
Too intense that he's loud and joyous in every event.
He went out for a walk, just to wander
The streets, but his time was up and then suddenly

Her name is June, pretty like a jewel,
She's warm like summer with the fury of the sun.
A stroll in the park, thoughts of the past,
The lines etched in her face, they show how she's livid,
Her hands clenched up, charged with abhorrence,
As a dark liquid tempest is infused in her blood,
Her voice it aches, a strong urge to shout,
Then her mouth opens and poof - she's gone, as

He closes his mouth, why was it open?
His memories show nothing but a sweltering ocean
Of black, a colour so blank, so fearful,
It reminds him of death and the agony of loss.
His name, it is Sam, he's mostly just sad,
Inside, once a hole, he tried to stich up but now
All that shows, is the scars on his shoulders,
He goes to cover up, but he lost his hold and

She catches herself, almost crushing her bones,
Laughing maniacally as she is free!
Her name, doesn't matter, she craves others' blood,
Often trapped inside, she never gets to taste it.
A shard of broken glass, sleeps on the floor,
It catches her violent eye and then her feeble wrist,
As she slashed deep down, the pain was immense,
She giggles at the damage just before she went and

I looked down at the slits on my wrists,
I had tried to prevent it, but my downfall had come.
I asked for help, down on my knees,
Humans never could, they'd laugh as they'd say
"DID isn't real!", a sneer in their voices,
And as the floor turned scarlet, it's all I could hear:
A chortle filled with ignorance and pride,
As the stigma of my suffering grew and I died.

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