There is a certain look
Behind the eyes of my reflection.
A poisned apple, a window
Into the thick forest.
Cloaked in the dark viel,
Light does not represent any savior,
Only a glint from fools gold.
A fake reality to which they will wash your mind, to fall to.
They will blindfold you,
And hide your skeletons within the closets of abandoned families.
Lost and never found...
A suicide note to be the last thing they imagine ever found of you;
My voice a crackling fire of coals, going out.
The embers no longer a pulsing heat, but a catching cold.
Sick, sick, sick...
Exhausted from poking and prodding,
From trying...
We're all sick,
I'm sick...
YOU ARE READING
Poems: Gade 12- Present Day
PoetryFrom another guy in the world, to you. Words that aren't spoken, but remain true. I hope you find comfort in my poetry too. A rusted connection to my reality, because honestly. I've lost it.
