You don't know what it's like,
To live a melancholy life.
He'd been kicked around,
Sometimes he could never be found.
"I'm okay."
It was his commonplace.
For him it's a hell life everyday,
He had no peaceful pace.
Tears were streaming down his eyes,
Just like the rain, the sky was sympathetic.
His judgement was clouded,
He wanted his life to be shrouded.
"What would it be like if I
were gone?" He asked himself.
He's too tired of asking for help,
Now was the time for him to rest.
The silver blade was his pen,
His skin was his paper,
He wrote with silver,
And the ink was red,
Together the blade and paper he made an artwork like no other.
Yet he didn't find any hope,
But sure he had descried a rope.
He put it in his neck like a choker,
He hanged himself and he floated in midair
He ended his tragedy,
This was his poetry.
Now I've told you of his story,
But he doesn't anymore need of your pity.
ⓒ Antarestic
YOU ARE READING
Dear Poetry
PoetryThis is a collection of poems written by me (of course). I've written this book because I want to express my emotions through poems and I was also inspired to write. I hope you'll like "Dear Poetry". Sit back, relax and take a deep breath before rea...
