I can't help it.
When my eyes refuse to cry,
my soul does it for me.
It begs constantly to be freed from this life trap.
Life is all gone.
Sometimes,
no matter where I am,
I feel as if my eyes could burst right
into tears,
and my soul will burst along with them.
My tears don't drop...
no, no.
I suck it all in,
and turn my mind into an asylum wilderness.
My tears don't drop,
but my soul does.
It pops from the pressure of
withholding my tears,
and it drops through the ground,
sinking fifty feet deep.
Get me outta here.
My soul is crying.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Suicide...
Poetry(#12 in Poetry- 3/5/17 |14 in Poetry- 2/28/17 |23 in Poetry- 11/18/16) Have you ever considered picking up a pen and writing to the one you fear most? Well, that's what I've done. When I write to my fears, It's oddly satisfying, because I know that...
