What the Pen and Paper Said to the Suicidal Poet

writingsforwinter:

We’ll be the great oak whose trunk you cling to

when scaling the branches to rise up from rock bottom

seems harder than just letting go like leaves do before winter sets in.

And there’s never gonna be anything more beautiful than the way

the paper you scrawl poems on is made of that very same tree,

and each of its rings symbolizes another year of age,

another year when ink triumphed over blood

and words spiraled down the drain

instead of the inner contents of your veins.

So hold on tighter to us than you would a razor.

Hang all your love from our red lines, our felt-tip nib, instead of a noose.

Remember that photosynthesis just takes time,

so stop trying to drain yourself of chlorophyll before you

get a chance to stretch up toward the sun just like that oak tree.

And we know there are so many goddamn syllables

that make up each day, so many thousands of consonants and vowels,

but there’s only one syllable in the word gone,

and when gone once, something cannot come back twice.

A poem, though, can always be re-written.

That’s what we’re here for.

But life is not a poem, and once it’s erased,

there’s no fresh sheet of paper. There’s no refill on the ink.

Just the bare outline of a poem that coulda been really fucking beautiful.

So do yourself a favor: remember that we love you,

and don’t write yourself out just yet.