Never Enough: poems and the endless odds

The Victim

I shut out the help,
But want others to feel my pain.
I can't stop thinking,
There's something wrong with my brain.

What a hypocrite I am,
Telling others not the harm.
When I myself,
Am the one who pulled the alarm.

I took his life,
Hers too.
And now they're nothing,
But a bloody brew.

I lay awake at night,
Thinking about death.
Wondering why,
I can't seem to rest.

I want to feel,
Wrath escape beneath my feet.
I want to taste,
Bones between my teeth.

And all this want,
Has turned to need.
And I have chosen,
Myself to bleed.

Their bodies I had dumped,
In a blooming meadow.
Hoping to drown out,
All the tears and sorrow.
That their loved ones had left,
Upon their grave.
Praying that,
They were innocent enough to save.

Now I sit here,
A victim of my own.
Waiting in regret,
An eternity alone.

Hoping this would be an epiphany.
Hoping that my parents would never see.
I'm bound to my habits,
Tedious routines.
The price for refresh,
My soul shall bleed.

A bullet in my head,
My legs tied down.
Sound echoing,
Throughout the town.

Now I know,
There's nothing wrong with me.
Except for the fact,
That I myself,
Am a victim of greed.