by
Lamont Neal
This is an earlier version of "Precipice Day". A newer version will appear in Neal's first collection, set to be published October 26,2026. Preorder here.
Consider this message formal notice that our author's content includes scenarios where Suicidal Ideation is discussed, studied, or otherwise included in such a way that may disturb those with experiences or sensitivities to these topics.
Death sang to me at an early age;
Songs of promise: parables—twelve basket surplus.
No more sadness, no storms, inner or outer rage,
Just calms ending, darkness, eternal mercy.
Sweet sounds and words, sung in discordant tones—
I read the music but didn't join the song.
Fortunate, fortune smiles on the waiting.
Better now.
Gloom followed me each evening, into my always home,
Surrounded by souvenirs of childhood, mementos and memory.
A bedroom full of the past, of here, and now,
But not safe from what followed each day.
Shadow reached from the corners, darkening, engulfing the center,
Imprisoning the light, obscuring the view of a future.
Darkness speaks its own language, with a persuasive logic.
Commands clearly heard but not obeyed.
Better now.
Dark waves crash, crash, scattering gray mist in droplets—
Confusion, confrontation, head in disarray.
Light flickers in peripheral, hides from head turns.
Has my inner storm returned so soon?
I hold to the wood, grab, fasten rope to my waist.
Found grip and connection through the gusts, something to brace.
My feet secured with friction and traction.
Better now.
New sorrows, self contract, six months for a day to get better—
A deadline, a date with a dark destiny.
Hope or resignation: a roll and a flip—
You leave it all to luck when it's the last thing you see.
In six months time, who won the game of chance?
Date marked in my calendar, point of no reverse
February 7th is Precipice Day, After the first
In celebration each year it stands hereafter
Better now.
"The Precipice Behind the Day"
Why Poetry? An author's note.
For those who have not experienced severe depression, it is not just deep sadness. It is complete numbness and an inability to see a future worth living. Suicidal ideation does not always arrive in a sudden crisis; it often builds slowly over time. Although those intense periods of isolation were at their worst in my youth, managing mental health remains a lifelong journey. Even though it is treatable and has never returned to those same depths, occasional moments of darkness still appear. I have to stay vigilant, recognizing when my mind begins to drift back toward that edge.
My poem “Precipice Day” reflects a composite of those experiences, but it was inspired by a specific tipping point. When I could not see a way forward, I made a deal with myself that saved my life: I agreed to hold on for six months to give things a chance to improve. I calculated the date, marked it on my calendar as my “Precipice Day,” and decided I would reevaluate then.
I am still here because things got better. As I prepare to share this work and reveal this part of my history to my adult children for the first time, I feel butterflies in my stomach. But taking off the armor I built around myself is necessary. They have never seen me cry because, at some point in my life, I forgot how to. That response was coached out of me, but the feelings never disappeared. I simply lost the outlet for expressing them.
I hope my words can serve as a substitute for those lost tears. I want my children, and anyone else reading, to know it is OK not to be OK, and that life rarely mirrors the composed perfection we see on social media. I have learned that holding on through the dark may not be everything, but it is often enough.
Between those dark periods, there is recovery and the realization that we can heal. I am deeply grateful I bought myself time, and two words remain true above all else: better now.
Lamont Neal is a reflective memoirist, philosophical storyteller, poet, and African-American father whose work explores identity, transformation, and emotional legacy. His memoirs For Chloe and A Thinner Life trace moments of profound personal discovery—from a nine-year weight loss journey as a metaphor for self-reclamation to letters written to his daughter about love, inheritance, and belonging. An I.T. professional with a B.S. from Truman University and an MBA from the University of Missouri–St. Louis, he is also a lifelong student of history, martial arts, and boxing. When not writing, he can be found immersed in a history book, chasing a ghost story, or revisiting the legacy of the Jedi in Star Wars. Through all of it, Lamont writes to share his journey of self-discovery—believing he is not alone, and that others may find resonance in his story.
