This is death
It must be death
I feel it
In corner of my mind
It grows inside
I feel myself living
But only dying on the way
Seeking self-pleasure
Getting nowhere
I feel myself breathing
But only taking in knives
They cut my whole
They erupt my life
Why am I cursed
With an addiction so wrong?
Who likes to feel
Tears of mourning?
Who lives to feel rivers
Flow and fall over pink hills?
Who dreams of losing the precious
Because they feel they deserve it?
When I cry, there is sadness
But only one so pure
When I cry, there is payment
For a life, impure
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This was written on the dreaded plane ride to Brazil. I was so miserable. But not THIS miserable. Please understand that I exagerate in my poetry. But I did cry for basically no reason. What I learned from this poem, though, is that maybe I like sadness because it's a way to pay for what I think I did wrong. I know I like sadness, but I never understood, and am still in the process of figuring out, why. Oh, and the rivers are tears, the pink hills are cheeks. Just a little metaphor there for you.
2 comments:
You're not alone. It just shows how good a person you really are.
Genial dispatch and this fill someone in on helped me alot in my college assignement. Thank you on your information.
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