mental health – Kevin Trent Boswell

Eighty Percent

Eighty percent of all suicides
Are committed by men
In case you weren’t listening,
I’ll say it again

Eighty percent of those who opted
Out of the plan of painful static
Were men, and I seriously doubt
That each one was a drunk or an addict

Labels help us dismiss the men
Who consciously choose not to live;
Toxic Masculinity, effeminate, weak;
Waved off as Liberal or Conservative

We’re expected to behave
As if we’re made of steel
But that’s fairy tale bullshit,
And it’s so far from real

Real men lose hope,
And they check out every day
They’re White, and they’re Black,
They’re straight, and they’re gay

They’re Latinos and Asians,
They’re Christians and Jews
College boys and farmers,
Overcome by the blues

And there was nobody there
Who knew what to say,
Who could (or would) help them
Make the pain go away

We choke on barrels or ropes,
Or we slit our wrists,
You call us narcissists, deadbeats,
And misogynists

If you say “All these men needed
“Was to have faith in God,”
Then your thinking is ignorant,
And dangerously flawed

Our bodies, ruined by painful,
Dangerous hard work,
But a broke or broken man
Is treated like a jerk

Women say, “Open up to me,
“Because I can help you grieve”
But when men share, women scare;
They get turned off and leave

A man carries on in silence for years,
Pain hidden by a noble stealth
But it rarely looks like the typical case
Of depression or poor mental health

More often than not, it’s a mystery
People scratch their heads and wonder,
“But he was so strong, I never knew.
I can’t believe he went under”

When a man can’t provide for his own,
No matter how he labors or tries,
Stumbling beneath an impossible weight,
He collapses from guilt, and he dies

The system dooms most men at birth,
Before we even get a chance to start
It favors the women who hurt us, and lie,
And rip our families apart

But the system wasn’t entirely built
By rich men, on the backs of the poor
There were also many greedy wives
Who yearned for more and more

Anyone who says women don’t lie
Or make up false allegations
Must have been hiding under a rock,
Not living in real situations

Of child support paternity tests,
30% are not the child’s real father
70% of divorces are initiated by women
So, why should a man even bother?

Many modern women think it’s cute,
Clever, and somehow funny,
To tear a man down by cheating on him,
Or using him for money

They say, “Men do it all the time!
“So, turnabout is fair play!”
But it’s not even close to being true
To say most men act that way

The word patriarchy is dropped
About a thousand times an hour
But most males have never known
Real money or true power

We’re told that “all men,” are abusers,
And how a bear could be escaped
But most men have never killed anyone,
Nor beaten a woman, or raped

Eighty percent of the suicide stats,
Men, in pain, and masking
But hey, everybody, we’re all fine,
So, thanks for never asking

Lean on me, brother, if you need to
You’re allowed to hurt and to cry
Soldiers should get furlough and rest,
But you don’t have permission to die

CDC suicide statistics by gender — From the CDC

stain

In loving memory of Jevon Ward

he was speaking vodka,
a language that I understood
all-too-well

as I sat on the edge of his bed,
I handed him the joint
that I had just finished
carefully rolling

he lit it, and taking a small toke,
became suddenly
and uncharacteristically
serious

“You do know that I’m not life, right?”

it must have been obvious
that I had no clue
how to answer that,
so he continued,

“When I was just a little boy,
“your grandpa (and mine) told me,
“he said,

‘Son, you’ll pull time before you hit twenty.’

“At nineteen, I did six months.”

before he could say another word,
drunk people spilled into the room
and the party took over

it was as if the writer
of this dark comedy of errors
had carefully placed
the interruption into the script
for dramatic effect

years later,
I stood in the yard
with my father
one morning

we burned a mattress
in the yard

a mattress with
a peculiar red stain
on the top end of it,
right about where a man
would lay his head down
to sleep

smoke climbed high,
snaking its way through
the bare tree branches,
coating the limbs,
blackening the sun,
giving twisted new meaning
to the wind

with each searing crackle,
each hot little iron
that launched out of the flames,
the notion was solidified
that you would never be
with us again

the red stain
is forever removed,
taken off and away
from the bad blend of cotton
and synthetic fiber

its ugly lack of aesthetic,
permanently removed
from the eye

we have, instead,
embroidered you
into our hearts,
in gold-letter
on satin

a little redirection,
a simple trick
of the firelight
and the mind

a touch of
pre-approved manipulation,
vocabulary and memory,
now twisted
to suit ourselves
with semblances
of sanity

and you, all dressed up,
looking dapper
in a new suit

something to
bring you over
the threshold
in style

we have gathered
many flowers

you were one of them

now, on this rainy Saturday,
we gather more,
but none of them are as rare
or as interesting as you

still, we do so wish
that you were not so

still

now, we are all
so much more careful
with our words

we never had to
monitor our tongues before

we always counted on you
to say something
deliciously profane,
hysterical, sublime

you said things far more terrible
than we could ever manage
(or dare) to bring forth
from our fearful mouths

you said it all for us,
you, being our favorite devil,
you spared no words,
knowing full well that your time
was short

now, everything is
serious and sullen

ash settles on us,
stealing the still-warm
seat of smiles

we do our best
to preserve the integrity
of your memory

with all our words,
so clumsily polite and wrong

yours were so horribly accurate

your list of faults could fill volumes

all of these,
now consumed by fire
and forgetfulness

we will not miss them

we are, in fact, glad
to be free of these;
free from the weight
of your awful acuity

your spiteful condemnation
of this earth was always felt
hot upon our necks

even your parting words of
“Fuck this world!”
were a vicious pronouncement
of a pox on all our houses

that seething sentiment,
ever-present,
laced into the mix
of the cocktail that was you;
virtually indistinguishable
from the indiscriminate joy
of your cosmic jester voice
pouring out over our
wanting brains

we will not miss the
chaos of your actions,
or your allegiance to
an autocratic indifference

we only miss

everything else

but beneath all of the
intolerable heavy,

knowing of nothing else to do…

we dutifully
lift our eyes
to the coming days
where you
are not

Heavy

I see the length of rope that hangs you
I know how you are trapped from within
There’s nothing for you that I can do
Don’t expect you’ll come down again

The invisible shackle on your leg
I feel its ponderous weight, as well
The lock and key don’t belong to me
And neither does your hell

There is no gag to mute your voice
You chose to choose, to beg, to ask
When asked about your final choice
The words could not escape the mask

The floor is yours; of me, no trace
Stepping away, discharging a sigh
One heavy heart, one double-face
For someone other than I