alcohol numbed the pain inside
and in hazy, unsteady steps
i got into the car, driving
speeds which no human ever
reached before, racing against
the breadth of a second, clocking away
in an old carcass that never
belonged to me anyway, just
speeding for the sake of speed
and joyriding for the hell of it,
and then the slow responses,
body jerking forward, and
fractures in glass outlined
by linear blood, all across
drawing death's figures
till the last breath
i take i shall live life
at the edge, and i shall
flirt with death, and maybe
a common cold can kill you
but i've lived so long
wanting to die now that
i want to live a bit because
death has always been a bit more
appealing
i shall fight for a life
and skull fragments on kaleidoscopes
of stars shan't stop me
YOU ARE READING
The Art Of Riddance
PoetryPoetry isn't the telling of a story; it's getting rid of the emotions that long plague you. These are my emotions; they are raw. These are my stories; And this is who I am.
