2015
I hear every minute detail,
And listen to the wind.
Yet I haven't much to say,
For where would I begin?
I am seduced by my tragedy,
Infatuated with my own sadness.
But I take this as a blessing,
For I am told true art
Never stems from happiness.
If I swallow another pill,
Perhaps soundly I will sleep.
I refuse to address my own problems,
For blessed are the meek.
Truthfully,
I wish it were not this way.
I pray to see the world in colour.
But why would I open my eyes,
Just to watch man destroy one another?
YOU ARE READING
Cyanide Lakes
Puisi❝WE TURN OUR PAIN INTO BEAUTY AND HOPE OTHERS WILL RELATE.❞ Please read the introductory chapter for an extensive trigger-warning. This particular collection contains a wide variety of poems detailing thoughts of insecurity, depression, suicide, etc...
