Sometimes I wonder, whats the point in living out my days like this?
A slow march rhythm, I know I'll quickly grow bored of it.
And I'll let my brain meet a bullet, and they'll quickly be acquainted
And I'll drop heavy as an oak in a concrete forest.
But tell me, if I am all alone and there's no one there to hear it,
Or they all have hands cupped over ears in the moment when the chamber spits,
When a small grey dot of sure destruction
That will still my limbs and organ functions,
One of many hunks of metal, that have and will, remove the knees from nations
Commits me six feet below the ground.
Tell me if they don't listen will it make a sound?
YOU ARE READING
For Once, Once Again. (Poetry)
PoesiaFor once, I'm going to write about myself. She says for the hundredth time. :) Thankyou for reading!
