My body's filled with ash
and my organs are trying their best
but it keeps clotting in my veins,
eating away at my muscle and-
-and they say the pills will help
but they taste even worse than the tears
(I hear the whispers of "depression"
but I'm fine, aren't I?
Depression is a serious condition
and I just can't sympathise with myself
My mind is compartalized in little boxes
and I don't always choose which ones open,
I've lost the master key ages ago
(and I know he's only 5 minutes late
but it just makes me so mad)
everything's so grey and rigid
my mouth's been sewn shut
(quite neatly, if I may add)
and I'm picking at the stitches
choking in my own blood
tasting acid on my tongue
(why do I think so much
but say so very little?)
It gets cold in the Winter
and I still have burn marks from last year
I still have scars from the years before
so I tug down my sleeves and smile
(I'm fine, you see
I've told you before)
YOU ARE READING
Amaranthine (Poetry)
PoesiaJust a few poems written by myself. I mainly post on DeviantArt under the username Glasses-And-Blades.
