deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Woods

Reading Anne Sexton in bed at 15
my brain grew a little bit bigger,
taking in the curious metaphors
and long expostulations of the self,
as damaged as that was.
Lost in the woods of my own bleak thoughts,
wandering from Turpin’s cave where dark
banditti plotted deaths,
to potted plants about a witch’s house,
I was not led to suicide.
I’d already seen my death,
in either an asylum or
an underpass somewhere.
The ‘70s girl was just a guide
to where I always was, and raised
in male ignorance, I needed one who’d cried,
whose note was wrought in verse.
Written by Casted_Runes (Mr Karswell)
Published
Author's Note
For World Suicide Prevention Day.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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