painkillers
with a trembling hand, i bring them to my lips.
i wince as i feel the pills force their way down my throat.
it's obvious that the pain still stays,
so i turn on the radio, trying to distract myself from my agony.
i'm tired of the withering flowers.
to be honest, it's pain that flows in my veins, not blood.
what's left to be afraid besides death?
perhaps it's the fact that birds don't sing anymore.
YOU ARE READING
youth
Poetrywe grab onto our youth but we never can keep it from slipping away from our fingers.
