He starred in the mirror for hours.
Telling himself he's,
nothing.
Worthless.
Pathetic.
failure.
Fat.
And much more.
He touched the glass and it cut him so fast and swift the Demons didn't have time to play.
He fell down the hole and into the ground where he found them.
The people who pushed him off the edge.
The people who tore his skin apart. The people who called out names that no one heard because...
They were trapped in his head...
The place where his reality is crushed and burned away...
No matter how many pills he took,
How many smashes to the head he gave,
They never went away.
But finally when he found a way,
he took aim and pulled the trigger,
Without a moments hesitation...
His last breathe was drawn and tattooed on the souls of the people he crossed paths with...
But the voices will always linger in the darkness...waiting to be found and used again for there next victim...
YOU ARE READING
Loud Pøetry Spilled From The Quiet Soul
PoetryAll of these are mine. Not the Internet. Trigger warning. (Self mutilation, depression, anorexia, etc....) And my apologies if they aren't even slow to Bukowski or Anything....I just wanted to try
