There is a prince, high in a castle.
Who never leaves his bedroom.
And every night the prince dies.
He slits his throat,
and he cuts his wrists,
and he chops off all of his fingers.
And as his blood pours onto the marble floor;
He hangs himself upon a chandelier.
As the tears fall freely down his face;
He chugs down pills one by one.
And he hangs from the chandelier,
the poor young prince,
he hangs in his own despair.
Because tomorrow is a new day,
and the prince will wake up fine
with only an ache in his chest
and an itch in his neck.
But as the day returns to night
the prince will again repeat these actions.
Because unlike you and me, this poor young prince is dead.
And killing himself from the chandelier every night makes the poor young prince feel alive.
YOU ARE READING
Strange Poems
شِعرAt the end of the day At the end of a book At the end of a year At the end of a page At the end of a poem At the end of a world There is always still a story to be told ©commicle 2014 all poems belong to me
