Typewriter Series #3063 | 11.3.20

I hope that you, whomever you are reading this little post on this little day, have never had suicide directly touch your life. I hope you’ve never lost someone to themselves, never had to say goodbye to someone who is already gone, never looked in the mirror and wondered if you could have done more (please know it is not your fault), never tried to understand something that is altogether too often un-understandable. I hope so, so sincerely, but I doubt it all the same. I have lost people I love to suicide, and I carry their weight daily. I wonder, daily. This poem, is not about someone I know personally, but the loss of them affected me as though I did, and obviously, still does. One of my favorite bands on earth, Frightened Rabbit, a Scottish band through and through, lost their leader a couple of years back, to suicide. Scott Hutchison was the founding member of this little band, and he sang about sorrow with such passionate hope, that I related instantly, deeply, and personally. His loss was a massive one, as he often sang about the precise way he chose to take is own life in songs before it happened. He leapt from the Forth Road Bridge in Edinburgh one night, and has been missed ever since. This poem, this little shout into the absolute nothing that I can do to help him, is my apology, of sorts. I wish I would have been there, I wish I could have spoken to him, to hold him for a moment and show him how much he means to everyone around him, to me, some goofy guy in Montana. I wish. Please, if you are struggling, if you know someone who is struggling, do NOT be afraid to help, to ask for help, to reach out. If you’re in the USA, call: 1-800-273-8255 or I believe 988 is supposed to be active already. If you cannot find anyone else, reach out to me, and I will do my best. I love you all, please stick around.

I’m sorry I wasn’t there

waiting to meet you

on that bridge,

leaning against some

lampost

ready to pull you back.

I’m sorry I wasn’t there,

in some tiny pool of light,

stepping from the shadows

with a mouth full of

hopeful whispers.

I hope peace came in freefall,

in the cold sea that

carried you north. I think

you’re there, now,

some myth in still waters,

that never really left.

Wish that I could go back

and meet you on that bridge,

stand as the mist rose

and before you toed the edge

toss a lifeline

of defiant

hope.

-Tyler Knott Gregson-


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