The Girl With Lonely Eyes

This isn’t really to do with my suicidal thoughts… I don’t know, maybe it is.
But this website seems to be the only place where people “understand” my poetry. My “art”.
This is a poem I wrote about a woman that I was in love with. That I still am in love with. To make a long story short, a couple of months back, she told me that she didn’t love me anymore. Just like that. I honestly believed that we were going to get married. And then she does this.
I can’t blame her, and I know it would be worse if she had stayed with me whilst not being in love with me. But that doesn’t ease the pain. And I’m in no way citing her as my sole reason for wanting to commit suicide. I would however, cite her as the straw that broke the depressed camel’s back.
Anyway, here is a poem that I wrote about her, called “The Girl With Lonely Eyes”

Sam was walking down the lost highway, trying to fall through the cracks of the pavement that he had made in his mind.
He had a tattoo on his forearm in the shape of a broken heart, with the name of the everlasting “one that got away” etched in night-time black.

He was thinking of a girl with lonely eyes and rebellious hair, God he loved her.
She didn’t love him though. Not anymore. No sir.
He had an alter-ego that hated Paul McCartney and considered himself one of the last great artists of his generation.
He would write new songs with old melodies and lyrics that he’d stolen from a campfire that he’d made in the bedroom of a delta blues singer.

He didn’t play the harmonica but he knew plenty of people who did, he tried not to feel inadequate when he heard the lost 95% of music lovers applauding a used piano player that he was in love with. A piano player with lonely eyes, and delicate skin.
He had given himself up without really knowing why. He had a chipped tooth, a sub-standard haircut and a sex life that left absolutely nothing to be desired.

He knew that he wasn’t even a real person; he was more than a name though.
He would drink and he would smoke but never start a single fight – that just wasn’t how he enjoyed spending his time.

His new girl was a blonde bunny, with a cabbage where her brain should have been. Gave good blowjobs and kept her mouth shut when it was appropriate to do so.
He tried calling his old flame to tell her about new candles that he had seen in the middle-aged reflection of his meditation. She said she didn’t want to bring the past back to life; he wasn’t so sure that it was dead, but she was determined to murder every last ghost of every first memory.

He didn’t hate her and she pretended to be glad, but really she was indifferent and impartial regarding the whole subject. Her morning had disappeared but she was the Queen of the Afternoon; the visitors of the night threw themselves at her feet, inflated her head and spewed imaginary evenings and complimentary keys at her doorstep.

He was good with words; perhaps a little too good, considering the lack of lines on his pale, hairless face. She was good with music; they should have been the perfect couple – and they were, for a while, until he stopped loving himself and she followed in his downtrodden footsteps.

He listened to his father and thought for a while about hopping on his guitar and riding it into the sunset. He certainly was tempted, but he decided that acceptance, although difficult, was essential to the rebuilding of the broken window to his heart.

He knew that the poor thing that would come along soon wouldn’t be able to escape constant evaluation and comparison to the girl with the lonely eyes, but the girl with the lonely eyes did not want anything more to do with Sam. He had seen the boat without seeing it, and failed to climb aboard. And now, there was nothing left, but a boy on the floor, a heart in an empty jar, and a girl with lonely eyes.