The Melancholy of the Repressed Soul

Published: Wednesday, 16 March 2011 Written by Gail Parillon


One, O where will the bullet be?


Two, only if I had fulfilled the countless times,
I desired to say how I truly felt,
Only a letter, one of regret of life lost,
Broken vows of men of the ages,
A coward’s way out.


Three, and yet time lingers on,
Sheer mockery and silent yearning to continue to exist within me,
I stare into the smashed glass mirror,
The misshapen, disfigured, out-of-place figure.


Four, O when will it be,
As the counted clicks string beautiful, tragic poetry,
Irony? Yes, pure irony, thinking I would never encounter such a situation,
Here I sat, in a purposely isolated motel room,
Contemplating in deep scrutiny,
The life I lived and the one I desired,
O only fate would know the ways she let me suffer,
But soon it is done and she is not the victor.

Cccllliiiccckkk – BAM!

I pack up my arms into the case,
Look with disgust before I dispose of the note,

And simply go on my way,
Back to what I considered norm,
A life of no true importance,
Back to the crowd, pushed back and forth, through and through,
Yes, this was the norm, unchangeable and inevitable,
To someone who has lived a life not their own,
Never truly LIVED one for themselves,
This was my true suicide.

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