Little beads of blood arise
In a cocktail made of woe
There is no knowing if you'll survive
The things that you don't know
You ask yourself if things long past
Can somehow be atoned,
You ask yourself if time gone fast
Will turn the pain to stone.
You ask yourself if all the lies
Will ever leave you be,
You ask yourself if your demise
Is for eternity.
You tell yourself that you're alone,
That no one understand,
The pain of things that they don't know
Lets blood run through your hands.
You can't be saved, you can't escape
For time has made it
Far too late,
You tell yourself
"Time to go home"
But time has made it
You have none
Turn up your wrist and cut it through!
It seems there's nothing else to do,
Or just lay back and let you drown
In blood that's made of lies abound,
Or walk outside and freeze to death,
Letting Jack Frost steal your breath,
Or swallow poison made for pain,
For Juliet has gone insane.
Little beads of blood arise
In a cocktail made of woe.
There is no knowing if you'll survive
The things that you don't know.
YOU ARE READING
The Art of Confusion
PoetryDiana Miller is schizophrenic...or at least she thinks so. She has never been clinically diagnosed because her father believes that mental illness is demon possession, and she knows he would never take her to a psychiatrist. To cope with her inner c...
