I feel like
Death.
Not the act of
Killing
But the noun.
Death.
Empty, like a coffin
Waiting to be used
When my frown is so real
It clenches my jaw,
Hurts my joints
When my eyes beg me to cry
But I have no tears to give up
When I have the urge to destroy
To take my books and burn them
And play with the fire
To slam my whole body
Into the wall
And break my bones
To throw glass
And watch it shatter into the
Tiniest, most amusing pieces
To walk across the glass and
Know
My feet must be bleeding
But I don't feel any pain
And think to myself,
If I feel Death practically
Pulsing through my veins,
Why am I not dead?
And then laugh at myself
And write a stupid poem
That'll be like the millions of others
In the world-
Empty words on a page
That no one truly
Understands the meaning of
YOU ARE READING
My Voice Through Poetry
PoetryDepressed + gay = poetry 🤯 ⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING: including (but not limited to) self-harm, abuse, mental hospitals, eating disorders, and suicide.
