yo this is my first poem...its copyrighted...and i need some feedback..


Old Man’s Memory of a Silent Midnight Suicide

This is a recollection coming from an old man.
And his memory of a girl who could no longer handle
the stress and pains of the world.
This is the story of the night she left us all.

Did you see that girl sitting in the corner; the one with
her face buried deep in her hands? She desperately
needed help. Could you help her? No you couldn’t! No one
could!

I walked over to the sobbing girl, and wrapped my
arms around her. She gave me no response. She refused to
talk to anybody about anything. And with that, I left her.
Something, now as I reflect, that I should not have done.
The state that I left her in was a dreadful one. The tears
from her eyes were so high in numbers that small pools of
water had begun to form on the floor.

As the rising sun peeked over the horizon, the maid
made her rounds through the house. Opening each
door and gathering the children from their peaceful
dreams. Scrambling down the stairs, they would
gather at the breakfast table, anxiously awaiting what
was to be served.

Where is that girl? I asked. The one who had her face buried
in her hands? For the life of me I can’t remember that poor
girls name. I pushed myself away from the table, and so I
began the dreadful ascent up those stairs, for it seems so long
for a man as old as I. You must excuse me if I tend to be vague
on certain details. My memory, as you have surely noticed, is
fading.

As I came to her door, being a gentlemen, I knocked to ensure
her time to dress in the event that she was not yet decent. I
received no response. Verbal or physical

Again I knocked…and again she gave no response of any type.
Please Lord tell me this girl is not still asleep!

Quietly I eased the door open. To my surprise her bed was
empty. The sheets had not even been ruffled. That’s odd. How
did that girl sleep? Well, I thought, maybe she’s attending her
personal business in the privacy of her bathroom. I continued
through the large bedroom. Then as I walked by the west wall,
I felt a chill breeze brush across the back of my neck. I soon
noticed something that I had not upon first entering. There
her window was. Slightly open. The white curtains swayed
in the light breeze. It was very peaceful sight. The suns light
shone on it so that it seemed that you could look right through the
curtain itself. Bringing myself back into reality and why I was up
there in the first place I eased the window shut and continued on my
way. That’s when I came to her bathroom. The door was slightly ajar.
Like I had before entering her room, I knocked…no answer. Peering
through the crack, I saw her figure. I knocked once again to let her
reach the door…again, no answer. This was ridiculous! I pushed the
door open, and as I opened my mouth to say something, it dropped
dead to the floor.

There she lay…cold, lifeless,…dead. I glanced around the room, then
quickly back down at her. And there in her hand I found a shaving
razor lined with her blood. From her wrists came the same blood. One
swift, perfectly cut line traced each wrist. Stumbling backwards, I
dashed out of the room. Never in my long life have I ever moved so
quickly as I did on that day.

I grabbed the mother by the hands and quickly dragged her back up
the steps with me to show her the awful scene. As she walked
through the door, her knees gave out and she fell to the floor in a
hysterical cry. Her wails rang out maniacally. She gradually crawled
over to her pale daughter, and embraced her as if she might come
back. Solemnly I placed my hand on her shoulder and motioned for
her to rise. I retrieved a phone and informed the police of the
silent midnight suicide.

Four days later, we laid to rest that poor girl and drew blood from
her wrists to allow her pain to flow out of her. Her mother was
unable to make it through the whole service.

From what I have heard, shortly thereafter, she went into a deep, dark
depression, and three years later, she, herself, died in her sleep while
wailing her dead daughter’s name. She was cremated and her ashes
were spread around her beloved daughter’s grave.

To this day; all these many years later, I still make it a point to visit
the girl’s final resting place. Now, as I get even older, I am finding it
a little more difficult to travel to the cemetery, but I have managed. And
every night, as I sit in my chair, I cry for her. Like she did so long ago,
when her tears fell, mine also have grown so large that they
accumulate into small puddles on my creaky wood floor. As expected,
over the years, the headstone, due to lack of proper care (a duty which I once appointed myself) has faded and her name is soon to vanish into time.
And as my day approaches, I prepare…something this poor girl never had a chance to do. When my day finally comes, and I close my eyes for the
final time, like her name, so goes her story. And nothing will remain of her except her name that has been changed countless times.

So as I end my story, I must say, if you ever find yourself wandering
through a cemetery on a dusk night thinking back on your life, and you
stumble across a chipped headstone with no name, and a faded date, moss,
and algae growing on its surface, and flowers ‘round its foundation you
have found this girl. If you would like to know how it reads, it says this:

Melissa Fenton
June 15, 1875-October 26, 1891
“Here lies the body of dear Melissa Fenton…
a beloved daughter who took herself away from us
far too early. Even though you are gone, you are still
loved and missed, dear Melissa, and we will see you
when we pass, and together we can dance upon the clouds
of heaven…forever.

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