Worms, New Ideations, Impressions, & Wildfire and Sequoia by Elliot York Cameron
Content Warning: These poems contain themes of suicide ideation, domestic violence, and other issues regarding mental health.
Worms
It’s something like “I thought he was past all that?”
Something like “Isn’t it time he moved on?”
Something like “Write about what you know”
but sounds more like “Can of worms”.
Something like “Is he eating properly?”
or “Where does he see himself in
five years?”
sounds a little like “How long does he have?”
All of his heroes are either dead or dying.
Damn it Chester,
we miss when only your songs were
One Step Closer.
Something like “Let go.”
Something like “I’ll always be there for you”
—it rhymes with “You’re my best friend”
but sounds more like a ticking clock.
Something like “Wow, that smile looks great on you!
You should try wearing it more often.”
Something like “You’re looking well lately”
sounds like “Academy Award”
only you don’t get the applause.
Don’t worry guys, I’ve seen this one before,
he doesn’t actually do it,
he just likes talking about it a lot.
—Vacate the stage, this is:
How to Get Attention in Two Minutes
(A Poet’s Guide for the Unconvinced)
Performed for one night only inside a padded cell
although
we removed the padding for you.
Something like “Hey kid,
here’s a concrete wall,
try not to get any ideas.
The dress-code for the evening
is a straitjacket
just make sure to leave
the fastenings undone.”
Something like “Hey kid,
here’s a concrete wall,
try not to climb to the top,
you’ll only fall
off.”
Something like “All the king’s horses
and all the king’s men …”
Sorry,
I know you thought you were watching Dead Poets’ Society
but this is just a modern retelling of Humpty Dumpty,
I hope you like the ending.
Something like “What’s wrong?
His third-act catharsis
has normally kicked in by now.
Don’t you miss when all his poems
were about video games
and girls he always knew
would never love him back?”
Damn it Chester,
we liked you so much more
when you were only about to break.
Something like “broken.”
Something like “Brightside.”
“Crack the sky.”
Chris was right,
the sun is a black hole.
Won’t somebody close the curtains
please?
Something like “Show’s over.
Curtains have closed.
We found a can full of worms
but worms belong in the ground.”
All of his worms are either dead or dying.
Something like “Move on.
Humpty’s gone.
We couldn’t put him back together again.”
Something like a ticking clock
ticking clock
king clock
clock
Something like
“Leave”.
New Ideations
My psychologist asked me if I suffer
from suicidal ideation
and I said no,
but the truth is
I’m not sure I understood the question.
Are you asking if the reason I stopped apologising
for being late for everything
is because most days it feels like a miracle
just to get out of bed?
Are you asking if I’ve thought
that leaving my hands DEAD-centre on the steering wheel
means I have to think about
When am I going to move out, go back to uni, get a full-time job, fall in love, getahousegetmarriedhavekidshaveacareerpayoffmyHECSdebtpayoffamortgage
WATCH EVERYONE LEAVE ME ANYWAY?
But moving them six degrees in either direction
means that all goes away?
Are you asking if my first response
when I found out my cousin had been diagnosed with cancer
wasn’t sorrow,
but envy?
Because he has a wife and two kids
and I have so much more use for his tumour
than he does.
Are you asking if I’m always aware of the sharpest knife in the house?
Are you asking if I know what the first search result is
when you Google:
“What is the best way to kill yourself?”
It’s the number for Lifeline.
Why does a search engine
want me to live
so much more than I do?
Are you asking if the reason I gave away
my Mötley Crüe ticket
was because the concert was three weeks away
and that was approximately two weeks and six days
longer than I was expecting to
live?
Are you asking if I cringed every time a teacher told me
how much “potential” I had,
because I knew my aptitude for geography
wouldn’t mean shit
if I was still so terrible at living?
And what the fuck does “ideation” mean anyway?
—The creative process of generating new ideas.
It’s not that I can’t stop generating new ideas,
it’s that I don’t know how to start.
This isn’t a creative process;
it’s a logical next step,
it’s six degrees of separation on a steering wheel,
it’s always making sure there is one very sharp knife,
it’s the static iTunes play count on every Mötley Crüe song,
it’s the scar that I still see
even though it’s been 10 years now
and the skin has completely healed.
it’s the promise I made to a friend
that I’d never try to take my own life again
—why am I so fucking great at keeping promises?
We don’t even speak anymore.
I doubt they’d even remember—
I should have made that one of the Terms and Conditions
of the promise!
I wrote a series called “My Life” and it’s
starting to drag.
Nobody watches anymore.
Most of the best characters left
long ago,
there’s only one guy who’s been around since the beginning
and he just talks about death a lot.
He’s consistent like that.
His cousin has cancer
and he thought he could take the tumour
from him
if only he could will it hard enough.
Because he knows
people don’t talk about those lost to cancer
quite like those lost to suicide,
and if he killed himself
everyone would say he chose to die,
but don’t they realise
that every day he didn’t kill himself
was a day he chose to
live?
I stopped apologising
for being late for everything
because every day I get out of bed
is a day I choose to
live.
And if I am so terrible at living
then I must be even worse at dying,
because I
am standing right here!
And there is a great finale episode
when all my favourite characters return
and hang banners from the walls saying
“We made it”
and death takes my hand;
my old wrinkled hand.
And death looks nothing like a steering wheel,
feels nothing like a sharp knife,
sounds nothing like a Mötley Crüe song
—he’d be the friend I’d lived with for years
yet who was patient enough
to wait for me.
I haven’t written that episode yet
because I hope
there are plenty more to go.
My psychologist asked me if I suffer from suicidal ideation
and I said no,
because suicidal ideation
suffers
from me!
It keeps coming back for more
and I kick its ass
every time.
Impressions
Smile when you introduce yourself,
don’t do that awkward thing
where you stare at the ground.
Stand up straight!
and try to have some
variation in pitch of your voice
—you know you won’t like it
when they start calling you
monotone.
Be friends with everyone
but don’t get too attached.
People have called you out on that before
—people haven’t called you back before!
Don’t fall in love with the first pretty girl who smiles at you,
you do that
every time
and it never
turns
out
well
—you know you don’t want to be that guy again!
Be “care free” instead.
Be the first to rise and the last to sleep.
Have a drink.
Have lots of drinks.
Have every drink!
Let them call you “cultured” in the morning
then let them call you “party animal” at night.
Let them marvel at how little sleep you seem to need.
Let them call you the Terminator.
Yeah,
you like that,
don’t you?
Do stupid impressions of Arnold Schwarzenegger
and pretend like you aren’t aware of how good they are.
Let them think
you’re invincible.
Let them think nothing could ever take you down.
Tell them you’re
“operating on a combination of willpower and denial”
but remember to smile when you say that!
Don’t let them guess that you actually mean it.
Don’t let them call you Resting Bitch Face again.
Don’t let them guess that only a week ago you were thinking about k—
Pretend like nothing gets to you
—let EVERY drink get to you!
Do stupid impressions
of the version of yourself that’s doing ok right now
and pretend like you aren’t aware of how good they are.
Don’t let them call you Chris Cornell.
Don’t let them call you Chester Bennington.
Let them call you the Terminator
and laugh it off.
Laugh a lot.
Call it your favourite day.
Call it the time of your life!
Talk about friends you used to know
as if they were still in your life
and pretend like you’re only missing them
because they’re so far away.
Pretend like it wasn’t just a week ago you were thinking about ki—
Scrunch that up.
Stuff it down the drain of everything you’ve ever felt.
Clog
it
up!
You’re here to have the time of your life,
remember?
They’ll never look at you the same if they see you cry.
So have another drink instead
and tell them how emotional you get sometimes
when you drink too much.
Yeah,
blame it on that.
Blame it
on the empty cup in your hand,
just don’t let them guess that only a week ago
you were thinking about draining that cup
for good.
They’ll never look at you the same if they see you
die!
So dodge the k-word like a
burn.
Dodge it like it’s oil spitting off a frying pan
Dodge the frying pan and jump straight
into
the
fire!
Tell them how emotional you get sometimes
when you burn too much.
Tell them how emotional you get sometimes
when you b r e a t h e i n too much.
Tell them
that only a week ago you were thinking about killing yourself
but you’re doing ok now;
and remember to smile when you say that!
Let them know that you mean it.
Laugh so much
you want to thank yourself for it later.
Be the first to rise and the last to sleep
—you didn’t choose life
just so you could sleep it away.
So rise
every time you burn like a phoenix.
Rise every day with the sun like Helios
Rise like Ra
Apollo
Rise like you’re the god of your own day
and call every day your favourite day.
Call them all the time of your life!
Do stupid impressions of Arnold Schwarzenegger
and let them call you the Terminator.
Yeah,
you like that.
Let them know you’re invincible.
Wildfire and Sequoia
I am “doesn’t want to be seen
enjoying himself”
as much as “doesn’t want to seem
like he doesn’t
know how”.
A cocktail:
high self-esteem with low self-confidence,
two parts Pride
to three parts Shame,
wildfire with a seven syllable name,
sometimes highly flammable
and then sometimes
The Flame.
I am paper crane more than paper aeroplane:
I fold
but I don’t fly too well.
I don’t know why you gave me wings.
Sometimes falling
and then sometimes The Fallen
and sometimes even the space between.
I am oxygen as much as I am cement.
Bent as much as I am lent
life like rejected knife.
High as kite
and low as coil
—my gut’s a drain
and you were my foil.
Life is a currency of blood
and I bleed,
but more artery and less vein:
carry blood where it needs to go
but don’t know how to bring it back home,
—I would have fit myself
into anything you placed in front of me.
My heart should have been a gymnast
or a tax collector.
My brain an athlete
but perhaps more sprinter than marathon runner,
pole-vaulter than hurdler,
shot-put and then shot from cannon,
circus clown on tightrope
and now elephant—
please,
don’t ignore me.
I am a suicide and a love note,
best friend drowning
and then lifeboat.
Breaking sea
Please stay afloat.
Break on me
Please stay afloat.
Waves crash
Crash on my stones.
Moon in my eye and glass for bones.
My skin is granite but I’m peeling
gratitude but chameleon.
So my flesh is sand when it needs to be.
Mud when it seems to be.
Build me into a castle when you need me to be.
I am clay and mud and sand and whatever you want me to be.
Dust on shelf or monotony,
unread book to this lobotomy:
cut me open
please!
I am fear
and I am free.
I am doubt
and I am free.
I am lonely
and I am free!
Pandora’s Box:
I am a seed now come tree,
now branch and now flower.
I was once wastepaper
but this is golden hour.
I am sequoia
king of the trees!
and light that seeps between leaves
much like a god would.
I am not timber
I am God Wood.
