Our youth, a strangled rose is falling apart like broken petals,
layer after layer strips away as dead times seep into the shadow
The machine suddenly beeps too loud, the supply of air fades
the air of senseless immaturity and wasted moments
the ones I forgot to live or never had the chance to
The cord of friendship linking me to other dead roses
twists and turns, choking me slowly, a deliberate noose
My hands cold yet unaccustomed to the storms, now
wildly try to pry the noose loose, fail and rest motionless
still like the words in my grave, the ones beckoning me...
The only sound I've heard in some time, a deafening wail
the thorns of my decayed flower, torture my soul
The repeated monotonous sound of the stone-cold tomb,
against the blurry night, ringing, calling, luring, evil
The rose has died, with it my youth, but I dangerously carry on
for the death of what was never alive, in my eyes
seems to be no loss at all, just a stab in the chest where
the bones, like unstable cornerstones of hopeful dreams,
break and turn into dust, blowing away like my future.
I am the eye of the storm, the middle of the tornado,
dismantling myself and anything that nears me,
raging, anger coursing through the black in my blood
pouring out in all directions, waiting for somebody,
searching for a helpless gullible soul to hurt
I come in every form of annihilation, the apocalypse waiting to happen
violently distancing myself from progression and life.
YOU ARE READING
DEAD FEELINGS
PoetryPenning down the extravaganza of thoughts that waltz in my head each day. Some dead, some alive, some barely breathing, but each one of them complete in it's isolation Some glooming, some blooming, some reflective and true, Some shrouded in shadow...
