She doesn't think you care,
no blame can be done,
she doesn't think she matters,
was she not strong enough?
There are cuts on her arms,
knives in her heart,
and blood on her hands,
as she watches you breathe your final breath.
Death is calling,
pick up the phone,
it isn't for her,
and you're all alone.
Dirt is piling,
over your head,
"This is your fault," she says once again,
because with one final heave,
the light had gone out,
goodbye, old friend, this is your fault.
YOU ARE READING
speed bump
PoetryI write my poems when I'm bored, Because I can't say what I feel without being forward, I read all night, And sleep all day, Just to keep you all away, I'm sick and tired, Of being w...
