Is it waking up to
Hands stained red
Blood on your bed
The smell of metal pounding in your head
Is that what keeps you occupied
Keeps the voices dormant inside
Is it the pain that drives you
Or is it the thrill that revives you
No matter what the cause; the bet
It will always end in death
YOU ARE READING
A Story Told, But Never Really Heard
PoetryThis is me. With no boundaries I reveal myself and hopefully save myself. I'm not sure whether I am writing this for you, or for me, but I hope it makes an impact none the less.
