July 12, 2010

A Poem About Hell, Appropriately Chosen

It is Sunday and I'm preparing for a three-day camping trip with hundreds of Cub Scouts and their families. I would have rather Kayden gone his entire scouting career without making me do this, but alas, I've finally been duped into going. I foresee the campsite's WiFi connection being as fuzzy as my legs come Tuesday, when I am released. Therefore, I'm posting this today.

I've decided to post a poem about Hell, to put you into my current frame of mind. First, a backstory about this poem. I wrote it when I was seventeen and at the height of my angst. Or rather, I felt I should have been angst-ridden like other teenagers, so I tried my hand at brooding poetry. I showed it to my grandmother, who I was living with at the time, and she replied something like, "Very strange. Should I be worried about you?" to which I said no and skipped away like a decidedly un-angst-ridden teenager might.

Later, in college (and here you thought this would be a short backstory), I was enrolled in a creative writing class. During our poetry segment, I forgot about an assignment until the day we were to present our poem in class. Frantic, I first tried to write a poem under pressure, but then grabbed the poem I had written at seventeen. This time, the response I got was "You remind me of Kurt Cobain" and "If you ever need to talk, here's my number." Really, I still have some stranger's phone number written on the back of my poem. I should call her now, nine years later, and say, "Hey, how's it going? I'm ready to talk."

Okay, now let's drift back...the year is 2000...I was living in Wyoming, which is where bad teenagers go when they die (or in my case, while they are still alive)...what I didn't know about iambic pentameter, I made up for with sheer drama.

Doodly doodly doodly doodly doodly...


Hell's Slave

I look at myself, through all my tears;
I dismiss every worry and all my fears.
My insides, in agony, writhe and twist;
I slide the watch off my wrist.
I think of the past as I grab a knife;
What is driving me to take my life?
I slice the blade through my skin, quick;
The liquid oozes out, red and thick.
The incision on my wrist is bleeding deep;
I feel my body start to sleep.
I panic helplessly and start to cry;
I now see, I don't want to die.
What exactly am I dying for?
Revenge? Sympathy? To settle the score?
My vision leaves and I know it's too late;
I sense a tunnel, filled with hate.
I smell the fear and hear people yell;
Instantly I know: I'm headed toward Hell.
People who die by their own hands,
Have their place awaiting in fiery lands.
A moment later, I feel the heat;
A devil appears and starts to beat.
Hell is what I get for choosing my grave;
Forever I'll be Satan's weeping slave.
This is how I spend my days:
All work, no pay, no play, no praise.
My friends forgot me up in earth;
I committed suicide and lost my worth.
I'll get another chance in one thousand years;
There's a glimmer of hope behind my tears.
I know my next life will be very rough;
But to escape this hell, I'll have to be tough.

Years have passed, I'm being reborn;
My life breezes by, my heart is torn.
I turn seventeen, I forgot I had died;
My life starts to sour, so once again,
I turn to suicide.


If I weren't walking out of the door at this very moment, I would like to draw an accompanying picture for this poem. There would be lots of tears and emotional strain and naked demons rocking out to "In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida."

Note from the Future: Great idea, Rick!

Further Note from the Future: that's its tail, pervs! Demons have tails!


Rick said...

Favorite line: A devil appears and starts to beat.

Please update your post with a drawing of a devil masturbating. Thanks! ;-)

Joshua said...

I think that poem is great. It stands in contrast to the typical angsty teenager stuff in that you clearly don't seem to take an actual, real-life interest in offing yourself.

Rick said...

OMG. I love your blog. I love you. Of course in a strictly weirdo-stranger kind of way. Not for reals. Thanks for being so awesome!

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Kelli said...

Rick, strictly-weirdo love is the best. Isn't there a Beatles song about that?