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by Shaara
Rated: ASR · Poetry · Writing · #818306
When a fellow writer always wrote dark tales of suicide, I wrote her a poem.
SLAM 2004: prompt: Must use "eating hemlock."


Eating Hemlock Is Such Fun!

A member of our reading group
Wrote stories of suicide and death.
I couldn’t bear to hear her words;
Her prose truly made me ill.
Thus, I wrote her a special poem:

Yes, eating hemlock is such fun!
Along with the convulsions
And the paralysis of limbs,
As the weed juice circulates
And you slowly fade away.
How cool it is to mourn yourself!

But remember not to spend a thought
On the love you’ll never know,
Or the good you could have done.

Yes, eating hemlock is such fun!
With your last few precious breaths,
As the poison stops your lungs,
And your face turns washed-out blue,
Then the toxins burn your muscles.
How cool it is to mourn yourself!

But remember not to spend a thought
On the faces of your parents
Who loved you more than life.

Yes, eating hemlock is such fun!
For your senses will depart
As the drool slides down your lips.
And you soil your pretty clothes,
While your body twists in pain.
How cool it is to mourn yourself!

But remember not to spend a thought
On whether you might have found
The answers to your problems.

“Oh,” said she. “I think you’re mean.”
Her face had paled from white to green.
She covered her mouth and fled.
The outside roses got her dinner.

The next time in our reading group
When her turn came to share,
She glared at me as she rattled pages,
And I prepared to hear more gloom.
But remarkably, her prose was pleasant.


I had to choose between two poems I wrote for this subject. I chose to use the above piece because I hoped it would make someone think. (I keep reading so many of the younger members of Writing.com who fantasize about death and suicide. I NEVER really did what the poem said I did, by the way.

However, while looking up our SLAM prompt on the Internet, I ran across the Socrates Café, which is an organization that meets in restaurants and clubs to debate, argue, and philosophize. I wrote another poem just for them.


The Socrates Café

Gathering in a slow-moving restaurant,
twelve disciples of Socrates,
we pander to our need to talk
and exchange philosophical discourse.
The restaurant takes no notice;
the waitresses rarely enter.
We meet inside its deepest chamber,
posing dialogues and perspectives,
not hoping for resolution.
Indeed, that, we do not want
For the Socrates Cafés
view agreement as divergent --
much like eating hemlock --
which paralyzes debate.


© Copyright 2004 Shaara (shaara at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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