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E. J. Farrand

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Popular Poetry (Self-Help)
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Forty-five Minutes
by E. J. Farrand

Saturday, August 16, 2008
Rated "PG" by the Author.
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           >> View all 82

Recently, I had a "Suicidal Incident". This poem tells the tale, and I'm glad that I'm here to write it.

For forty-five minutes---
I searched;
something, anything,
a means to the end.

That extension cord?
No, secured to the post;
looking, more desperate,
mind in a fog.

Something MUST be here,
I've got to find it;
pressure building,
as immediacy aproaches.

In this drawer---
this will do,
looks strong enough
it'll have to do.

Where now?
Someplace I won't be seen;
images of some
who would try to be heroes.
Can't have that---
upstairs, the electrical room,
it could be days;
I look around one last time,
sorry that they would sometime find me.

Part way up---
a note,
I forgot to write something;
paper and pen shake out a brief request,
'Please tell Mom I'm sorry"
and I lay it on the desk.

Up those stairs once more,
cement stairs sounding hollow,
echoing the emptiness in my soul;
the top looking imposing,
but a place to do the rest.

A solid brace---
I don't know of it's use,
but it'll work for this,
they'll probably take it down.

The rope---
smooth and cool,
as I tied around my neck;
one tug, not enough,
so I tied another knot.

Over to the brace,
the height was too much;
I couldn't afix the other end,
where is something to stand on?

Across the room---
a pail, probably old paint,
but it would be the right base;
walking toword the pail
it now seemed like a dream,
no sense of any emotion felt.

the pail? the quiet?;
I became afraid,
grabbing that tie
from around my neck,
balling it up in my fist---
run down the stairs,
terrified now, seized the note
but didn't know what to do.

A Manager---
known for a long time,
I ran to him trembling,
words stammered, foreign,
"Please help me, Please"

Staying with me,
no respite from his vigil;
a call to 911 brought rescue to me.

no shape to really answer,
an arduous, interminable ride
to hospital emergency
elevated my panic and shame.

Unadored walls
topped by incessant glare,
a single bed, an empty chair;
and the everpresent nurse
with her dilligent stare.

Story repeated---
to more than a few,
crazy though I felt,
they called it
"a depressive event";
still anxiety raced
through my body and mind
until medicine coursed,
finally a calm arrived
peace for a time.

Doctors, nurses
all seem to care,
social workers
came out of thin air
to offer solutions
to stem my despair.

A plan---
needed by me but ignored,
now reinforced
with desire from fear;
develop the means to a beginning,
that may the forty-five minutes be a start,
not a time for an end.





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Reviewed by Jean Pike 8/17/2008
Oh, wow. Scary. Please be well.
Reviewed by Carin Spirit 8/16/2008
Soooo Glad you are here to talk about it. Warmth and Love to you.

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