This pending sorrow in my head,
This black burnt wood smells like my fate.
Tiny circles of happiness,
Lets me slip into unconciousness.
I don't want to live no more.
Dreaming is all that matters.
Separated from reality,
Into an endless road of pain,
My flesh turns grey and cold,
My blood into ice.
The wind bites my back as I fall...
Deep into the bed of roses
As I dream a dream of reality.
Thorms of the rose prick my ever-aching back.
Yet I'm never to wake again,
Surrounded by the pain of my mistakes.
Notes : I wrote this poem when I was actually psycho-suicidal and going on a suicidal spree of panadaols. (Which is a very painful way to die, so don't ever do it, thank you very much.) Lol, I think you're all sick of me posting sad and depressing poems already, but I can only write when I'm upset.. :]