Oh Me
No poetry as the words flings through me, and I'm growing a year older and the hill seems black as I write these things. It draws near, and my youth is already gone. Yet I am drowning further into the hills. Trees and bramble burns through me as woody truths takes away fantastic folklore. Slowly the wine and cigarette burns my soul, and problems gone and problems that remain seem to tangle my webbed thougts.
Words that brandish deep into wounds I can hardly stand, and I know that I mean nothing to many. Suicide is painless, and maybe change is good. I can take it or leave it with the false hope that lingers by. And my desperation becomes frustration, and I struggle to find meaning in the chaos. The void seems to echo old familiar blood drops as the warmth flickers in my hands as it mixes with sweat. My fingers drop twice then thrice as lovers fling their salted tears against rusted gates, and I am doomed.
Words that brandish deep into wounds I can hardly stand, and I know that I mean nothing to many. Suicide is painless, and maybe change is good. I can take it or leave it with the false hope that lingers by. And my desperation becomes frustration, and I struggle to find meaning in the chaos. The void seems to echo old familiar blood drops as the warmth flickers in my hands as it mixes with sweat. My fingers drop twice then thrice as lovers fling their salted tears against rusted gates, and I am doomed.