A beautiful, thin girl,
Laid on her bed.
A sentence replaying,
Over and over in her head.
A boy so sweet, and funny,
Laid on the floor.
Look through his mind,
There's nothing to find.
The girl of beauty,
Reached to her phone.
Not a text, nor a call,
Was from her boy.
The boy so sweet,
Laid still on the floor.
His phone in his hand,
With a message that didn't send.
The girl shrugged,
And decided to call.
When no one answered,
She left a voicemail.
The boy's parents,
Called for him to come down.
When they didn't hear from him
They went up there.
The girl waited,
Hoping for a call.
One from her boy,
The one she loved.
The boy's parents couldn't believe what they saw.
Their precious son,
Their only one,
Laying in his own crimson blood.
The girl received a call,
One from the boy's parents.
She was quick to answer,
And regretted after.
A few days later was his funeral,
She wore her best dress,
And tried to smile.
She gave his parents a hug,
Told them she wish she had known.
Then maybe, just maybe,
They wouldn't have to endure this pain...
Of losing one so dear,
To a way many choose.
A way that shouldn't be a choice,
Or shouldn't have ever been a thought.
YOU ARE READING
A Dying Flower
PoetryThese poems were written in my dark times of 2015. I did not want to see the next day, or face people who were suppose to be friends and family. Since then, I have become a mother at a young age and found peace in my trauma. If you would've told me...
