A poem
One verse
Has stolen all my words
Ripped my heart
Out from my chest
Placed each part
Atop a torn vest
I once wore to a funeral of my own
Silence is no cure to this pain that I've known
Yet it cures the familiar ache in my bones
Yes, it is awareness.
I can choose to be alive,
Or I can choose cyanide.
The choice is obvious, no?
Cyanide brings death,
Death cures thought,
So death makes you what you're not.
If what you're not is happy and fine
Then whats the point of wasting time
When you can overdose on Prozac
And be just fine?
©aspen_fall
A