Poetry Sessions: Expiration Date

Antidepressants coping through tough lessons as an adolescent.

Feelings sorry for myself. 

There I stood embracing the summer solstice under a full moon.

Breezy vibes behind yellow tape lines. 

An innocent bystander. So I thought.

Paramedics pushed aggressively through, as I peeked over, scoping the depressing display.
I stood on my tippy toes, behind a women tall, and shapely of statuesque form.  

I wasn’t so blessed with the gift of height.

Elongating my neck, hoping to get a glimpse of the scene in front of house number 4103.

I looked on intently. 

I caught a glance of the victims lifeless eyes, as the stretcher took its last ride.

I stood there anticipating the story line behind this guy.
There was no blood, no struggle, gory-less in sight. 

Stillness overtook the air, deafened by the loud sound of silence.

His familiar face was hauntingly pale, ghostly chills ran over me.   

“I think he’s dead” whispered a passerby.

Red white and blue lights illuminating the night sky.

“Victim has a feline tattoo, ironic. I guess he used up his nine lives.” Said the paramedic as he secured the white sheet over the victims blind eyes. Fully open.

I looked down at my forearm, heart pulpitating as I noticed my Garfield tattoo. Eerily similar to the victims.

“Was it suicide? Manslaughter? Homicide?

Maybe a hate crime?

How did the victim die?”

Chatters of meaningless curiosity filled the night air. The courier wind relaying the whispers onto my quivering ears.  

“It’s a mixture of them all!”

I finally exclaimed in the crowd, growing tired of the aimless concern.

It was manslaughter on a little boy who never grew up, never matured. Unhealed childhood wounds overshadowed that man’s joy, stole that man’s laughter.

It was a homicide, barely known to the unsuspecting members, in the victims home.

Imagine bricks so perfectly stacked, cemented flawlessly, red colored in tone.

But buried beneath was no foundation, apparent walls, but no home-inside.

No one knew the hate that brewed dormant. A crime of passion would have sufficed.

Over this passionless criminality present tonight.

A crime of hate for the person that lived inside.

Without a weapon, a person of interest, or a fathomable cause.

Not a mark on his frame was found.

Yet his body expired right in front of our eyes.

I know what led to this poor fellas death.

The loss of hope. It was suicide!

I know this why?
Because I killed him.
he is I.

I am the victim of internal death, long before my physical demise.

 

Ps. I’ve been binge watching murder shows lately (The psychologist in me LOVES wondering what goes through a killers mind lol) in the middle of my marathon of murderous documentaries, I heard “antidepressants” and VOILA… this poem flooded my mental (my mind is…well…unique lol)  I got the urge to write a creepy, yet (as always) inspiring poem. It’s been a while!

In expiration date, the message is to never lose hope. Without hope, we’re merely hollow bodies killing time (no pun intended:) before our very own expiration dates. We all have one.
So live each day hopeful. Where there’s hope and faith, there’s life! 

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