P    O    E    T    I    C    O    N

I do not profess to know what goes through an individual's mind during those
times when that individual is contemplating, for whatever reason, the futility of
living.  I am, by nature, an optimistic person.  As such, I have always intended to
live my life to its fullest.  Even so, I can make a sane and intelligent deduction as to
the emotions felt by such an individual.  After all, I too have felt anxiety,
depression, fear, and many other human emotions a person is capable of feeling.  

    However, many individuals feel negative emotions to the extreme, and have
difficulty coping with them.  It is these negative emotions that I'm concerned with,
my reason for this book.

    Many of these poems have been inspired by the young, teenagers in
particular.  To be so young and feel life is a futile endeavor is truly a tragedy.  
Therefore, I have made an honest and sincere attempt to steer such negative
emotions towards a more positive outcome.

The book is in three parts:
Journey Into Hell
From part one:


Is death too much to grant a lifeless soul?
If I am nothing, there can be no loss,
While those with more than nothingness stay whole.
The point is moot. One does away with dross
The vermin drop, or pigeons leave behind.
So, why not take to heart this worthy task,
And kindly do the world a service kind?
It costs you nil, this favor that I ask —
But, if it’s courage that you lack, I have
The fortitude to forge my own demise;
And I’ve no fear of settling for the grave,
For I’ll have killed the hatred in your eyes.
I beg, this one, and only deed allow,
So Death can be the last to whom I bow.

From part two:


In limbo hangs my soul, for what I’ve left
Behind is gone, and Hell I’ve yet to greet.
Instead, I’ve no more tears to spill. Bereft
Of any earthly sense, I’m incomplete.
If ever-after does not make me whole
Again, then never-after will be mine;
And all the same, my hell will come, my soul
Will teeter on the timeless, ageless line
Between the living and the dead. I’ll die —
Ad infinitum, neither here nor there,
A never spirit, never flesh. Then I
Will be consumed by sorrow and despair.
I asked for nothing but to nothing be,
And so, I’ve gotten what I cannot see.

From part three:


I am as tired of Death as Death is tired
Of me, since I have made a double chore
Of both our lives. But I have been inspired
By my own will, and though fatigued, I’ve more
To will for my own sake. There is a day
My name is read, and once it’s read, abide
I must; until such time, there is today,
And many more todays to come. I’ve cried,
And know there are more tears to fall; and I
Must burn, for life has spark of its own kind.
It’s right to die when it is right to die,
And right to live when one has changed one’s mind.
And I will see myself, until the end,
Embrace my life until my life I spend.
ForeWord Clarion Review of The Suicide Sonnets
ForeWord Clarion Reviews
Lisa Bowers

    Eddie Morales’ poetry collection, The Suicide Sonnets, is a meditation on
what suicide really entails. Rather than deal with the aftermath of such a death,
these poems crawl into the psyche of someone truly considering ending their
life. The poems are unflinching in their account of someone’s descent into
blackness. The 76 compact sonnets in the collection chronicle the emotional
journey of someone traveling from one end of the mental spectrum to the other.

    The sonnet form is perfect for this collection. Instead of grappling with the
age-old topic of love, the poems are dark, cycling through the depths of the
speaker’s despair. The rhyme scheme deftly mimics the draining repetition of
depression. Morales’ end lines are full of rich word play. In fact, if you lined up
the end words, the reader would still grasp the poems’ meaning and tone. For
example, Morales ends the lines of “LXXI” with such words as “dispel,” “soul,”
“time,” “man,” and “crime.” This poet has a firm grasp of the form, and on how
to create rhymes that build another layer of metaphor.

    There are sharp moments in this piece that may cause the reader’s hair to
stand on end. Never are the poems too gory or voyeuristic about suicide and
depression. Instead, they get right to the point. For example, Morales opens
“XVII” with the following lines, “My shiny blade knows where to make the cut, / A
slice across – and deeply – where it’s good.” This blunt opening shows the
reader just how serious this situation is.

    At the start of this collection, the poems’ speaker is in the messy gut of
depression. By dividing the collection into three sections, Morales shows the
full cycle of mental illness, and that depression does not have to be the end.
Instead, after one enters hell and dwells in purgatory, a rebirth is more than
possible. By the end of the book, the speaker finally realizes that “night is
chased by dawn.