Because I'd rather turn my lungs black
than my arms red,
And I'd rather this kill me slowly than
already be dead
I'd rather continue this purgation
and slowly fade away
Than let this balloon inflate, because
I have to stay;
I'd rather do things this way, so
my disappearance isn't abrupt
Although I'd love to end this now
I guess I have to stay put
YOU ARE READING
An Amalgamation of Words
PoetryI'm almost as bad at writing descriptions as I am at writing poems, but at least I tried. Sharing my inner turmoil, one poorly worded sentence at a time.
