it would’ve been easier
filling my veins with poison
poison ivy like
breaking everyone's heart
just so none of them
would bleed for us
losing ourselves to alcohol
decapitating our heads
from the dark river
bringing the mess
upon yourself
yet you cry about it on daily
trapped in your own mind
no escape,
even if you buried yourself deep the ground,
in the middle of the woods
if your mind lives,
you’ll still be found
and murdered
YOU ARE READING
Beneath The World
Poetrya melancholic born writer who once turned to self-destruction for comfort.
