Stop the madness.
I'm tired.
Can we stop falling in the same hole?
Drowning in the same river?
Reliving the same scenarios?
All of the talking...
Conversations now are just simple platitudes - every word of them.
All of the visible incertitude that they carry (and that I sometimes carry, too?)
The air is filled with heavy, tasteless vibes -
they decrease my existence,
and pull me back into a cluttered head.
When I try to get away,
I find my head sinking beyond quicksand.
My hands search above the ground,
but cannot grasp nature's solid, dirt foundation.
My hands have nothing to hold onto.
They sweat with nervousness,
as my mind unwillingly covers itself
in a shivering anxiety.
The world is staring at me hungrily,
preparing to murder me.
If I'm not careful,
the world will murder me.
Please, don't remind me.
You don't know how I will make it,
and I don't know, either.
Stop the madness.
No more futuristic predictions...
Right?
YOU ARE READING
Dear Suicide...
Poetry(#12 in Poetry- 3/5/17 |14 in Poetry- 2/28/17 |23 in Poetry- 11/18/16) Have you ever considered picking up a pen and writing to the one you fear most? Well, that's what I've done. When I write to my fears, It's oddly satisfying, because I know that...
