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Literature Text
No hope now,
the tears can flow,
without heasitation,
instead,
replaced,
with bitter hatred,
(and a touch of dread).
Your stories of angst,
and threats of self-mutilation,
and bitter regrets,
will mean nothing,
when the time comes,
to pull the trigger.
But everyone has angst,
which causes the blood,
to drain the face,
you know you're only,
simply,
annother statistic.
You've seen through the frivolity of life,
but know you're stuck,
forever,
in the pain of self-hatred.
No songs can save you,
no tears will sympathise,
no chance will come thrice,
and above all,
none will care.
the tears can flow,
without heasitation,
instead,
replaced,
with bitter hatred,
(and a touch of dread).
Your stories of angst,
and threats of self-mutilation,
and bitter regrets,
will mean nothing,
when the time comes,
to pull the trigger.
But everyone has angst,
which causes the blood,
to drain the face,
you know you're only,
simply,
annother statistic.
You've seen through the frivolity of life,
but know you're stuck,
forever,
in the pain of self-hatred.
No songs can save you,
no tears will sympathise,
no chance will come thrice,
and above all,
none will care.
Surprisingly, this poem isn't about scuicide, but if you know my previous work (that I got rid of from deviantart recently), then you'll understand the underlying meaning I was... *trying*... to get across.
...I need a thesaurus.
and a dictionary.
...I need a thesaurus.
and a dictionary.
© 2006 - 2024 Suburban-Penguin
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