Would it be through a bullet?
Or would it be through a noose?
Perhaps it will end in pill,
partnered with a bottle of booze.
Would it be through the slices
of white defenseless skin of my arm,
red blood flowering from my wrist--
harm, harm, harm.
Would it be through jumping
down the tallest building around?
It's no better than slicing--
a crushed skull on the ground.
YOU ARE READING
The Theater
Poetry"The world is our stage and we are its actors, destined to play different roles. May it be a princess, a peasant, a hero, a traitor, every part needs its own soul. " The Theater is a collection of poems, examining different lives and love through th...
