Can a jump signify freedom,
A knife salvation,
Rope, a type of safety?
Truly, can death be measured as kind?
Is suicide the same?
Can it be sweet?
With one's own actions,
Can safety, freedom, or salvation
Be discovered and kept as a treasure?
My intentions are unknown,
I'm irate, coming undone at the seams,
Ready to burst out and scream.
Will water be pleasant when it
Stings inside my lungs,
With the pain, is it worth it?
Fear, pain, melancholy,
Written out on my stone,
Leaving myself utterly alone.
My fault, my fault, my fault,
It was my choice,
And now regret I hold close.
I can barely feel the tingly sensation,
Creeping with trepidation
Along the crimson stains of my arm.
Maybe the choices were wrong,
Maybe my life was a sad song,
And now all that I've had is Gone.
YOU ARE READING
Troubled
PoetryI am writing this on account of a random inspiration and the spark from my many fires. I hope you all enjoy it, or at least read and comment with kindness and empathy.
