I look out the window,
to the ground below,
wondering if
the fall will be slow.
Or horribly fast,
falling throught the air,
but honestly right now
I do not have a care.
I just want this to be
the end of my life.
Swift and breezy
and painless to a knife.
A knife would be slow
really painful indeed.
Stabbing or cutting
would take forever to bleed.
Death is my wish,
I don't want to live.
Put forth a effort?
I don't want to give.
Would it be hard?
When I land?
Crushing my bones?
Or light as the sand?
Maybe I
will just pass out.
Not feeling a thing
as my life dies out.
I look at my teacher
at front of the room.
Not at the school
I decide in gloom.
My classmates would hate me,
disrupting the class.
The teacher would quit
or surely get sacked.
For letting me fall
out the window with care.
It would be all my fault
with wind rushing through my hair.
So, alas, here I sit,
staring at the screen.
In the back of the classroom
holding back screams.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry. From the broken soul.
PoetryPoetry written over a time span of over ten years. This includes some of my darkest and lightest moments and the stories of others. Most deal with topics such as suicide, depression, family, eating disorders, religion, self harm, acceptance, recover...
