Artistic Tips - Repetition Repetition Repetition

Repetition is a really useful literary device. Repetition is a really fun literary device. Repetition can be a really annoying literary device. Repetition is useful in creating a specific rhythm, connecting lines or ideas, making a phrase stick out as memorable, and making it easier to memorize. Repetition is fun because it makes it catchy and it's easy to get into both as a writer and a reader. Repetition can be annoying if it's overused like probably by this sentence you're annoyed at the repetition of the word repetition.

Here's a quick glossary of different types of repetition.

Anaphora - repetition of the first part of a sentence
Epistrophe - repetition of the end of a sentence
Refrain - a phrase, line, or group of lines regularly repeated throughout a poem, usually at the end of a stanza

Alliteration, assonance, and consonance are repetition of sounds which I have defined in last week's Artistic Tips.

I use "I am" and "I'm" as anaphoras for the first and fifth stanza (also "I can"). Stanza 2 and 6 are the same stanza. This is loose definition of a refrain since it's only repeated twice and is an entire stanza in such a short poem. In a song it might be considered the chorus. But in the theme of the poem of relapsing, the same exact words carry a different meaning because of the change in context. "It" in stanza 3 is an example of an epistrophe. It's an excuse to rhyme a word with itself. But it also works well because of the assonance in "damn" and "had." "Good" and "golden" are an example of alliteration, and "better" and "embolden" are an example of consonance.

"Relapse"

I’m good. I’m golden.
I’m better. I’m embolden.
I can do this. I am steady.
I am driven. I am ready.

Day after day. Step by step.
I’m working hard to rebuild my rep.
I don’t know what’s going to happen next.
But I will do my best to not be vexed.

Damn it.
I had it.
All together again.
I had found my zen.

Now I’m back.
Exposed to attack.
It all happened so very, very fast.
I thought the last time was really the last.

I’m not okay. I’m broken.
I’m battered. I’m choking.
I can’t do this. I’m shaking.
I am trapped. I am breaking.

Day after day. Step by step.
I’m working hard to rebuild my rep.
I don’t know what’s going to happen next.
But I will do my best to not be vexed.

Poetry - Relapse

Relapse

I’m good. I’m golden.
I’m better. I’m embolden.
I can do this. I am steady.
I am driven. I am ready.

Day after day. Step by step.
I’m working hard to rebuild my rep.
I don’t know what’s going to happen next.
But I will do my best to not be vexed.

Damn it.
I had it.
All together again.
I had found my zen.

Now I’m back.
Exposed to attack.
It all happened so very, very fast.
I thought the last time was really the last.

I’m not okay. I’m broken.
I’m battered. I’m choking.
I can’t do this. I’m shaking.
I am trapped. I am breaking.

Day after day. Step by step.
I’m working hard to rebuild my rep.
I don’t know what’s going to happen next.
But I will do my best to not be vexed.

Poetry - Scars Remain

Scars remain

I remember the pain

The blood stain

The pouring rain

The smiles I feign

The fears that reign

Good old memory lane

Feeling insane

Shackles, the mental chains

The beating of the cane

Alone against the grain

The nightmare bane

The energy wane

Emotions drain

The burdens I retain

Poetry - Cutting Words

Why do I let words hurt me

More than these cuts and bruises

I bleed and bruise

Because I choose

To control some hurt

Make all else feel inert 

Why do I seek approval 

When I don’t approve of myself

I need to be wanted

Because I am haunted

Of being alone enough

That suicide won’t be a bluff

Why am I jealous of friendships

When I know that they all have to end

I know everyone leaves

Taking my treasure like thieves 

The only thing I desire

Is to not fall for another liar

Why do I feel a need to bleed

When I know I won’t live much longer

I live from day to day

Not knowing what to say

If anything at all

How badly I want to fall

Poetry - Suicide Triggers

Trigger Warning? Where do I start?

It gets better, but it never stops.

What I write; my whole life Is not for the faint of heart.

The knife stopped twisting, but the scars remain,

On my arms, my heart and my mind.

They heal but I still feel Every cut, every pain.

I don’t remember how many suicide attempts I’ve survived

Except that it was my favorite after school activity

From eleven to seventeen Poison laces any memories revived.

Suicidal memories have replaced suicidal thoughts.

It’s Russian roulette without a bullet.

There’s no pill for this ill but No Demons to be fought.

The trigger gets pulled and I fall to my knees.

Can’t breathe. Clutching my heart. Cloudy mind. Numb.

These tears are for fears That will never escape me.

Life progresses in either fast forward or slow motion,

Like life is passing by as reality constantly shifts

Triggering torment that I can’t forget Causing a caustic nauseous notion.

How the hell am I suppose to live with myself everyday

When the man in the mirror was my past potential killer?

I forgave him to save him But now what are we suppose to say?

It was Faith and fellowship that pulled me through

The proverbial fire that was my personal hell,

But it’s Grace and faces That pull my triggers too.

As much as I want to, I can never forget 

All my short comings, how far I’ve fallen;

It’s combined with how high I’ve climbed It’s a problematic set.

So anything can be my trigger at any time. 

I’m still learning how to cope with this post traumatic stress,

But every day proves another way That I can survive.

Suicide Songs: Saturday

Saturday was Sally’s one year anniversary 

From when Sally was rescued from the most perverse adversity.

Sally was twelve when she ran away

Thirteen when she was pimped out every day.

Four, five, maybe six men a night

Sally was too drugged up to remember or to put up a fight.

By seventeen Sally was her captors’ best selling product.

Sally graduated to the busy streets earning quite the profit. 

Eight high-end regular clients from all walks of life.

Sally walked away wondering how many of them had wives.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

Ten minutes later Sally barely survived her insurgency.

Eleven hours later she woke up handcuffed to a hospital bed.

Sally was arrested for prostitution. A teenager who was barely fed.

Charges were dropped and Sally was released onto the streets.

After twelve months with no one to help her get back on her feet,

Sally almost went back to her pimp. The only life she knew.

But the memories were too much so in the next life she sought refuge.

Suicide Songs: Friday

Closing time. Say goodnight. Lock up.

Same routine like every other Friday.

But today was the last check Luke would pick up

Luke told his co-workers he would be ok.

And no one wanted to believe that it was a lie

Twenty-four years doing the same thing every day

Luke had always been too proud to man up and cry

It wasn’t the best job but it was more than decent pay

It was more than a job. It was what he loved. It was his entire life.

He was married to his work so he never bothered to look for a wife.

Money wasn’t the problem. He had a comfy retirement fund.

Finding another job wasn’t the problem. He was well qualified.

But his accident and the damage could never be undone.

Behind a computer at a desk, he knew he would not be satisfied.

So as everyone was leaving from the front door

He took the elevator up. Limped up one last set of stairs

One last check. Felt nothing in his core.

Said goodbye to his love then jumped into the air

Suicide Songs: Thursday

Lucy wasn’t feeling so lucky last Thursday. 

Her friends were no longer jealous of, or interested in her life.

She had everything and then lost everything in just one night.

A handsome husband and two beautiful boys.

Her high school sweetheart. Her pride and joys.

Her reason to smile as she laid down her head. 

Her reasons to wake up early and get out of bed.

Money can’t replace happiness. 

Insurance can’t fix faulty seat-belts.

It can’t cover the cost of the immense pain she felt.

She was drowning in all the paperwork and all her grief 

She was left alone to pick out three coffins of three different sizes

And no one was left to comfort her cries in her crisis

There wasn’t a bottle deep enough to grant her relief

There wasn’t an ocean wide enough to drown her sorrow

But her bathtub was just the right size to forever avoid tomorrow

If she could have had the support to stay afloat for a few more days

She would have discovered on her own that she was too late

It was too late for her boys, but not for her little girl

Suicide Songs: Wednesday

Andrew only walked through the quad on Wednesdays 

It’s the one day his roommate didn’t drag him to the cafe

Wesley was nice enough to Andrew so he had a hard time saying no

He would say he wasn’t hungry but Wes would still insist that he go

But he reluctantly went because he needed Wes to force him to eat

After class they walked around the quad to avoid to the sunny heat

Andrew was too depressed to eat on his own

When he did try, he would vomit before he went home

Next semester Wes had practice on Wednesdays so Andy skipped lunch and cut through the quad 

It was the quickest way to get back to his dorm, but he nervously gave everyone a frantic friendly nod

When he got home, he threw out half of his food so Wes wouldn’t suspect

He left crumbs on his bed and at his desk in case he ever tried to inspect

Andy told Wes he was anorexic and depressed over the break

He was trying to get better but the best he could try was to fake

Wes was nice but he wasn’t enough

Life was getting unbearably tough

Andy wrote a note for his roommate

Left a voicemail telling him to come home late

Locked the door. Said a prayer.

Tied the knot. Kicked the chair.

Suicide Songs: Tuesday

On Tuesday Brittany was teased for the last time.

She had the word slut carved into her arm.

No one ever suspected that she self-harmed.

She wore long sleeves but a short skirt

All the guys thought she was a tease 

And all the girls thought she was  a flirt

She was a virgin, never even kissed a boy

But that didn’t stop the lies that could not be appeased

She said no to the quarterback who tried to use her like a toy

He told everyone she slept with the entire team

And he told her he would rape her if she didn’t agree

She was scared and alone. Her mom was an alcoholic

Her step-dad abusive. Her cuts were simply symbolic,

A physical manifestation of all her emotional pain.

She wasn’t clinically depressed. She was completely sane.

She just cut too deep. 

And fell fast asleep. 

Suicide Songs: Monday

It's Monday afternoon and no one in class notices or cares

That Max isn't there but with a gun from who knows where

He's been attacked and harassed everyday since freshman year

Verbally, physically, emotionally filled with fear

He's seen the videos and read the headlines 

Seems like everyday a star comes out 

Until now it's been enough to get through the day

But the dance on Friday night was their last chance

The bell's about to ring but Max can't relax 

He feels like he's going to have a heart attack

The halls are going to fill and his tears are starting to pour

He's afraid. He's always been afraid here

But he won't be for much longer

In the next moment he feels a little stronger 

Ring ring bang bang 

He didn't know he wasn't the only one afraid

That the boy he asked to the dance actually wanted to be more than best friends

That his “friends” heard him say yes

So they beat him up too

Max got stood up because Mitch could no longer stand

Suicide Songs: Sunday

Suzzie's still dressed up in what passed as her Sunday best

Studying for tomorrow's math test

It's a lot of pressure when you're suppose to be a prodigy

When you're expected to make your mark in history 

When your expectations can't possibly result in reality

Except their not your expectations

Your work and success don't bring you feelings of elation 

Quite contrary your dreams are being suffocated 

You're in your home, your room but you still feel dislocated 

Like nothing's real

You don't know what to feel

You don't have the best dress 

But score the highest on every test

But that's not you or who you want to be 

But somehow no one else notices or sees

Your parents are so proud 

Your friends cheer so loud

But you can't get anything less than an A

You have to study so there's no time to play

It's all too much you're going to snap

The empty pill bottles fall on your lap

She didn't know her parents would still love her if she dropped out of school

That her friends didn't care if what she wore wasn’t so cool

Suicide Songs: Intro

The last few weeks were an introduction to poetry and to myself. I started writing poetry because I was hopelessly depressed and I had no voice. I had no one to talk to. No one I trusted. I was alone. Alone in my pain. Poetry kept me alive. Poetry gave me life. Poetry gave structure to my chaos and confusion. I was mentally ill but wasn't sure. I didn't want to accept myself because I was afraid of what my family and church (i.e. everyone I knew) would do to me if they found out I was gay. So I tried to drown myself when I was 11. I started cutting myself when I was 15. I also stopped eating. I don't know how I would have survived without poetry. If I couldn't say everything I needed to say without actually saying it.

But as I mentioned in the mini-memoir, I did end up in a mental hospital when I was 16. It really was the best thing that could have happened to me. Even though the boy broke my heart and I let that screw up my most important friendship, I was no longer alone. There are so many people out there just like me. Suffering from the same depression and oppression. But that's where traditional therapy ends. It gives you the tools to overcome obstacles. It provides a system that reduces your risk of relapsing. But it can't make you forget. And I'll talk more about this next week.

For these next 7 days, I'm just going to share 7 stories. 7 completely different souls. 7 completely different circumstances. 7 same "solutions" to those 7 very different problems. Just 7 ways suicide happens in our society.

"I Think, I Am A Man"

"Transition"

Poetry - I Think I Am A man

“I Think, That’s What Makes Me A Man”

Sometimes I forget to think,

Therefore I forget that I am.

I’m not sure if I know what it means to be a man.

Is existence something out of which I can blink?

Because I try to follow the rules to a tee.

I keep checking what’s on the checklist.

But a girl I still have yet to conquer -I mean kiss- 

And I’m not sure if I even want to be.

To be a man, I desire by definition

Of with whom I identify, but I question if that is really I.

Or if simply everything I’ve been told is a lie.

Because I am who I am and that’s a unique sensation.

I like Hot Wheels but not real cars.

I like ballet and being in the kitchen.

I don’t like contact sports or combat missions.

I don’t like princess dolls but I like astronauts chasing stars.

This is who I am, I think.

Therefore I know that I still am.

But I might not fit your definition of a man.

But watch as I still exist even if you blink.

Poetry - "Transition"

“Transition”
by David Wright

Once upon a time I believed in Fairy tales
In pirate patches and ships setting sail
In evil witches losing their magic powers
In freeing damsels locked in their towers
In knights jousting in their shining armor
In Cinderellas meeting their Prince Charmers

But now I know better because now I live
In the real world where people forgot how to forgive
There's more to a story than tradition
Since this world is always in transition
Even saints can be condemned as sinners
And sometimes losers become winners

Once upon a time I wanted to be a girl
To wear high heels and precious pearls
To be a princess with a pretty pink dress
To be proposed to by a prince and say yes
To have my wedding with white roses and vanilla cake
To have an album of all the photos I would take

I didn't want to play sports or wrestle in the dirt
I didn’t want to do anything where I could get hurt
I didn’t want to play with monster trucks
I wanted to play tea party with my stuffed ducks
I wanted to twirl around like a ballerina
I wanted to be pretty and smart just like Athena

Boys will be boys. Girls will be girls.
But that's not the only rule in the world.
Gender roles are chosen by our definitions
Not assigned like a military conscription.
You are free to be whoever you feel is true.
You get to write your own story. You do you.

Picture Poem: "Lovely Grandma Hands"

Photo by Julie Reay

Poem by David Wright

"Lovely Grandma Hands"

Love is Ageless. We are not.

Wrinkles and Wounds reveal

The Depth that Love has Wrought

And the Lengths to which we have Faced and Fought

For that Love that Will never be Forgot.

Poetry Performance: "What the F*ck is sex?"

Poetry: "What the F*ck Is Sex?"

Just to help you read the poem on your own and formulate your own initial thoughts and interpretations, I'll post my performance video tomorrow. Speaking of, feel free to comment your thoughts or questions on this poem in the comments, and I'll address them in the following posts this week.

"What the F*ck Is This Sex You Speak Of?"
By David Wright

I think girls are pretty and guys are hot,
But I don't really think about sex a lot.
Sure I had crushes on girls and guys,
But girlfriends and boyfriends felt like lies.

The straight default just felt straight up wrong.
I felt I had to hide the alternative gay behind genderless love songs.
So I didn't know if I was gay or straight or something in between.
I didn't even know what sex was. No one really tells us when we're teens.
It's this abstract concept that's suppose to be so great.
But they except us to wait.
To wait for a life time to pass us by,
Before we get to awkwardly try.

Sex is placed up there with drugs and drinks.
Things that alter and inhibit our ability to think.
If virginity is sacred, then losing it is either taboo
Or something only the cool kids get to do.

Sexy is cool. Sexy is intimacy. But I'm cool with just a high five.
Sex is money. Sex sells cars. But I don't really want to drive.

I still have crushes on guys and girls.
But that's as far as it goes in my world.
I wouldn't say no to a boyfriend or a girlfriend,
Since I could still fall in love for the first time or again.

So what the f*ck is sex? It took me a while to figure out, and I’m clever.
Sex is something I don’t want. Not now and maybe not ever.

It’s more than just sexual abstinence.
There’s no sexual attraction, not an ounce.
Maybe some day there will be.
I’m not 100% committed to celibacy.
And whether it be a woman or a man,
I’ll be ready if I know it’s God’s plan.