Flat White Snow

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Abstract

a coat in the snowstorm- That I hear nostalgia, not pain, on the cassette.My tears are telling me to end it; My years are telling me to live; My fleeting warmth tells me it’s too late to quit; My lack of your comfort can be very persuasive.I don’t want to lie to myself anymore; I’ve felt empty my entire life. More than any other thought, I’ve imagined something using rope or a knife.Here, sat in the frigid cold, I wait for an endless film of dreams to come true And my memory of things that to me you’d told Have started to fade out of view.The wind will pick up the tears I’ve shed And soon they’ll turn to ice. Eventually the path I tread On Saturdays will be buried, along with your advice.I’ve forgotten how it feels to have something to hold onto In the snows

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torm that I call my mind. It reminds me why I’m cold and makes me want to Sit there and quietly die.Hi, if you enjoyed this piece feel free to follow and subscribe to my account, s-p-sacker, to receive an email whenever I publish and check out some of my other works. Some with similar themes include:Telephone box ( <a href="https://s-p-sacker.medium.com/looking-just-beyond-my-eyes-65bdbbb8538e">https://s-p-sacker.medium.com/looking-just-beyond-my-eyes-65bdbbb8538e</a> ),Looking just beyond my eyes ( <a href="https://s-p-sacker.medium.com/looking-just-beyond-my-eyes-65bdbbb8538e">https://s-p-sacker.medium.com/looking-just-beyond-my-eyes-65bdbbb8538e</a> ),Subdomain: <a href="http://s-p-sacker.medium.com">s-p-sacker.medium.com</a>:)</article></body>

A poem on loss and suicide

Sat on the bench in the park We used to sit on every Saturday Morning after coffee at Descartes: A flat white and a doppio at the café.

The tips of my fingers no longer feel touch; They miss the feel of your face. You’d think me macabre to think of you this much But my tongue is burnt and cannot taste.

I wish I could say I could still feel your warmth- That I’m not half frozen to death- That I’m wearing a coat in the snowstorm- That I hear nostalgia, not pain, on the cassette.

My tears are telling me to end it; My years are telling me to live; My fleeting warmth tells me it’s too late to quit; My lack of your comfort can be very persuasive.

I don’t want to lie to myself anymore; I’ve felt empty my entire life. More than any other thought, I’ve imagined something using rope or a knife.

Here, sat in the frigid cold, I wait for an endless film of dreams to come true And my memory of things that to me you’d told Have started to fade out of view.

The wind will pick up the tears I’ve shed And soon they’ll turn to ice. Eventually the path I tread On Saturdays will be buried, along with your advice.

I’ve forgotten how it feels to have something to hold onto In the snowstorm that I call my mind. It reminds me why I’m cold and makes me want to Sit there and quietly die.

Hi, if you enjoyed this piece feel free to follow and subscribe to my account, s-p-sacker, to receive an email whenever I publish and check out some of my other works. Some with similar themes include: