My Mistakes
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,
I run-
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.. :]
