Written And Directed By Death
A dead man's script,
Follow the lines.
Lie in your casket
And count the time.
Don't step out of line.
Keep in time.
Keep quiet
As you're buried alive.
Follow your script,
Put on a show.
Look alive,
But are you though?
Ignore the nails
Barricading your life,
Suppressing your air,
Trapping you inside.
Free from stage fright
But imprisoned in pride.
Moulded to the coffin,
And dead inside.
Now scratch the surface,
But don't make a sound.
Don't you dare scream
As you take a bow,
And take your last breath
As you succumb to death.
Yet don't you forget
You made your bed.
You cased the lining of the casket,
With silk from the laundry basket.
Then you laid down
And played the part,
Followed the lines
To finale from start.
And you'll lie there for a lifetime
Because no one knows you're dead,
Except the director
Who kissed your head,
Who tucked you in and said goodnight,
Put down the nails that hold you tight.
And you didn't even put up a fight.
You didn't even try.
Did you care that you would die?
The star of the show!
Too focused on the spotlight.
So you didn't know,
That you were being
Buried alive.
YOU ARE READING
weeds: a collection of poetry
Poetryweed noun (1) \ ˈwēd \ Definition of weed (Entry 1 of 3) 1a(1): a plant that is not valued where it is growing and is usually of vigorous growth ⚠ TRIGGER WARNING ⚠ Contains imagery and subjects of: - Death - CSA
