Death has a hand around my neck,
every day, every night.
Sometimes a grip on my wrists.
Sometimes a time bomb in my head.
He crawls beside me in bed.
A pillow of horrible thoughts.
A blanket of cold and loneliness.
A hug of hopelessness.
I don't want to die.
I don't want to die.
I don't want to kill myself.
I don't want to kill myself.
I
want
to
kill
myself.
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YOU ARE READING
Dark and Beautiful
PoetrySometimes my thoughts and hand bleed so much poetry I can barely stop them from leaking onto the paper. But sometimes, too, my heart bleeds too much blood that I couldn't write poetry anymore.
