Here’s a breakdown in your voice that you can use as a Poem of the Week feature, a newsletter anchor, or a spoken word video description.<hr><h2 id="poem-of-the-week-note-of-recovery-1" data-toc-id="poem-of-the-week-note-of-recovery-1" class="font-editorial font-bold mb-2 mt-4 [.has-inline-images_&amp;]:clear-end text-lg first:mt-0 md:text-lg [hr+&amp;]:mt-4" style="font-size: 24px; line-height: 1.2;">Poem of the Week: “Note of Recovery #1”</h2>Poem:Note of Recovery #1The first time I tried to commit suicide Was when I was 15 years oldI rode my bike into oncoming traffic I was so tired I decided to pedal through the stop lightAs soon as I hit the middle of the road, I stopped and my legs gave out I looked up to the sky and decided to embrace whatever may comeThe cars stopped and honked So I kept going.The second time I tried to commit suicide was with Swallowing a bottle of my mom’s pain medication with alcohol.I woke up the next day and carried on.The first time I cut myself was with a broken razor.I started with my fingers I moved down to my forearmsMy legsMy chestI got tired of that and began burning myself with cigarette buttsI carried onWhen will the voices stop!?I screamed at myself while pounding my bare fists into wood and plaster, cutting me further.I was hospitalized and recoveredThere is help out there Look for the light It will find youThere is hope. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy But I can tell you it’s worth it. Don’t miss out on the best days of your life.<hr><h2 id="what-i-was-trying-to-do" data-toc-id="what-i-was-trying-to-do" class="font-editorial font-bold mb-2 mt-4 [.has-inline-images_&amp;]:clear-end text-base first:mt-0" style="font-size: 24px; line-height: 1.2;">What I was trying to do</h2>This poem is not metaphorical; it’s a straight, unflinching ledger of suicide attempts and self‑harm, written as a literal “note of recovery.” I wanted to drag a subject that’s usually whispered about—if it’s mentioned at all—into full light. No euphemism, no softening. The world often pretends to be fine while people like us are quietly planning their own deaths; the poem refuses that collective denial.At the same time, I’m reaching a hand out to whoever is reading and silently hurting. Between the lines of each event, there’s a second voice—one that didn’t exist at 15 but exists now—offering, “There is help. There is hope. It will be worth it.” The poem is a bridge between the kid on the bike and the person writing these lines to someone else who might be where he was.<hr><h2 id="craft-choices-and-how-they-serve-the-message" data-toc-id="craft-choices-and-how-they-serve-the-message" class="font-editorial font-bold mb-2 mt-4 [.has-inline-images_&amp;]:clear-end text-base first:mt-0" style="font-size: 24px; line-height: 1.2;">Craft choices and how they serve the message</h2><ol class="marker:text-quiet list-decimal pl-8"><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Plain diction as an ethical choice The language is stripped down: “The first time I tried / to commit suicide,” “I woke up the next day / and carried on.” There’s almost no figurative flourish. That’s intentional. When you’re talking about suicide and self‑harm, ornate metaphor can feel like glamorization. The plainness honors the seriousness; it reads like someone sitting across from you, telling you what happened, without performance.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Chronology as structure The poem moves in a clear sequence: first attempt, second attempt, first time cutting, escalation to burning, hospitalization, recovery. That chronological spine gives the reader a map through chaos. It’s not just traumatic imagery; it’s a narrative with an implied arc from acute crisis toward something like stability.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Repetition of “I carried on” “I woke up the next day / and carried on.” “I carried on.” Those lines do a lot of quiet work. They show how survival sometimes looks like numb continuation, not cinematic rebirth. The speaker doesn’t wake up filled with gratitude; he just keeps going, almost mechanically. Only later, when the poem reaches “There is hope,” do we see how that stubborn continuation eventually becomes meaningful.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Body map of harm “I started with my fingers / I moved down to my forearms // My legs // My chest” reads like a clinical chart of damage. The vertical spacing slows the reader down, making them feel each new territory of the body being recruited into self‑punishment. That lineation turns the body into a landscape you walk through, wound by wound.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">The pivot from “voices” to “light” The question “When will the voices stop!?” is the emotional apex. It’s both literal (auditory hallucinations / intrusive thoughts) and metaphorical (internalized shame, self‑hatred). After that outcry, the poem turns: hospitalization, recovery, and then the direct address to the reader—“There is help out there / Look for the light / It will find you.” That pivot from inward scream to outward message is where the “note of recovery” truly begins.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Direct address as lifeline The closing lines break the fourth wall completely: “I’m not saying it’s going to be easy / But I can tell you it’s worth it. / Don’t miss out on the best days of your life.” This is not artistic distance; this is a survivor talking. In terms of craft, it transforms the poem from a confession into a message in a bottle. The “you” is any reader hovering at the edge I once stood on.</li></ol><hr><h2 id="how-you-can-use-this-as-a-readerwriter" data-toc-id="how-you-can-use-this-as-a-readerwriter" class="font-editorial font-bold mb-2 mt-4 [.has-inline-images_&amp;]:clear-end text-base first:mt-0" style="font-size: 24px; line-height: 1.2;">How you can use this as a reader‑writer</h2>If you’re writing about suicidality or self‑harm:<ul class="marker:text-quiet list-disc pl-8"><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Consider using plain, direct language and letting the horror be in the facts, not the embellishments.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Build a chronological spine so the reader can follow you from crisis toward whatever version of “after” you have.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Map the body explicitly if it’s part of the story, but avoid fetishizing; each wound is a data point, not a spectacle.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Decide consciously whether and how you’ll turn to the reader: will you offer them a lifeline (“there is help, there is hope”), or will you stay entirely within your own perspective in that moment?</li></ul>“Note of Recovery #1” is doing both: documenting exactly how bad it got, and proving by its existence that someone made it through to a place where they can say, honestly, “Don’t miss out on the best days of your life.”

Weekly Poem Breakdown - "Note of Recovery #1" by Adam Levon Brown 

Poem of the Week: “Note of Recovery #1”

Craft choices and how they serve the message

How you can use this as a reader‑writer

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Weekly Poem Breakdown - "Note of Recovery #1" by Adam Levon Brown

Weekly Poem Breakdown - "Note of Recovery #1" by Adam Levon Brown

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