It's a steady beat
One, two,three
One, two, three
Over and over
Faced with a choice:
Finish what was started and die
Or try again to live.
The decision was made.
Die.
Finish it.
Laying on the hospital bed,
One last breath was taken
And all that was heard was a long, flat tone.
Someone not to be saved in the end.
The steady beat was missing
Another life expired
In an empty room
Of a quiet hospital
And life just continues on.
YOU ARE READING
Isabelle's Poetry Journal (a continuation of Homesick Angel)
PoetryMy name is Isabelle I am 15 years old (not my real age.) I am a "Homesick Angel" at least that's what I'm told I am called the people like me are called the people who are depressed suicidal empty numb those people they're just trying to go home T...
