2015
Sixteen is far too young an age
To be contemplating death.
Nearing seventeen,
And running out of breath.
My heart is not immune to pain.
My lungs cannot take this strain.
But you pushed me.
You pushed me anyway.
Took my kindness for weakness,
My seeming innocence as bliss.
But I was never innocent.
I was born marred and stressed.
My mind is a home
To darkness and violence.
Echoes of whispers and tauntings,
And then there is silence.
YOU ARE READING
Cyanide Lakes
Poetry❝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...
